I’m
at a portico, as eyes ablaze with fire—the prow of souls; to live it as a
fantast, some-type of soulquake, gnawing an interior yoke; as meant to live it,
where soldiers perish, in chase of becoming warriors; as engaged in battle,
this rarity of events, as two taken towards destruction.
It’s
a mystique wraith, a comet as a soul—a ladder as a symbol; to cry your life, as
one to foresee—this inner gurney—this mental harp; as to sing the blues, for
one addled and terrified—the tempo of a saxophone; as featured in hearts, this
infinite brochure, where death is riddled with affairs. It mustn’t be love, as
fabricated through sex, ever to hear, It
was merely for moments; to become that person, as repeating that line, to
see a mirror and vomit. I know for passion, that desired feeling, to want it as
an object of lust; where object is
troublesome, this deep conflict, as to live this very paradox; where a
dreamcatcher twiddles, as alive in midair, as harnessed by a vision; to have
and protect, this reckless life—our poison as ever our nectar. It mustn’t be
life—this dynasty of woes, to feel joy as something foreign; for one is
bias—towards that of experience, to live each day as a triumph; where war is
normal, one girded in flux, a day’s journey towards bliss; to feel the cinema,
a movie playing its song, where a chessboard twiddles in midair. The carpet was
laid; the opera was sung; and life became a series of stitches; where choice
was void, this thing of struggle, even in the Senate. Oh through tendons—every
volt—surging through sensations; to stand so close, close to ten miles
apart—and parting ash. The miracle is love, an immortal action, a product of
metaphysical residue; to wobble through life, as missing the mark, for an arrow
is slanted by corners; to churn in reverse, a series of a city, to thrust a
beating cave. I use us more, as a cat ruins upholstery, as one murmurs of
humiliation; to have but dreams—our palms colored in pains—staring at sycamore
eyes. It couldn’t be real—the footprints of autumn—this torrent of sensations;
as scribbled in psyches—our signs and measures—our symbols of evermore.
