I
move in haste to participate—in wainscot ethics; as born in sequence, to feel
out of time, to anticipate catastrophes. It’s a velvet sickness, this pensive
dimension, as forced into slavery; where love is mystic, this joy embedded in
sorrow, to have but seconds of pleasures; as misunderstood, peering at glossy
eyes, this person for addictions. I art in silence, this ruby wine, this russet
heartbeat; to call in loudness, this gravid sensation, to grieve this woman;
where lines churn, as eyes mizzle, this pistol for inflections; as greeted
sorely, the scent of amber, or even Eternity; to cry to live it, as livid as
owls, forced to watch in silence: the massive takedowns; the furious glee-horns;
this feature girded in temptations; to want for love, this pictureless course,
shredded in academia. I hated to feel it, this internal lose, where love grew
condemnations; as born to time, to suffer this ingest, to remold a sense of
joy. There’s sheer abandon, this feral kiss, abed an abrasion; wherewith, are
arms, this furious jewel, afire this nightmare; in which, was life, the giving
of turmoil, as to sculpt a poet. We try for sights, as blinded as
infatuation—this internal gravity—the pash of souls, to court a lover, and
realize it wasn’t heaven; to have but seconds, to determine a future, a bit too
audacious. We revved an engine, this inner ballet, as to discount angels;
whereby, a flurry—of pagan rites, to harness this imagination. It mustn’t be
life, as spread so thin, longing for eternity; and it mustn’t be life, as
treasured in hells, to receive what wasn’t given. It’s near abysmal, this inner
scene—the dalliance of one out of focus; to build with hay, as searching for
concrete, to wonder of disaster; therewith, affliction, as one unknowing, to
grind a peg into his skull. Our tides are shifting, as comely the depth—this
inexorable specter; where love is void, as it never was—but a moment of
sensations.
