It’s
a hallowed passage, this inner cocoon, as fraught with trepidation; therewith,
a scar, this star of demons, to outsoar Satan; if but a dream, this mysterious
force, once present at meetings; if be it—the two are one, this phantasmagoria,
sketched in a psychotic notebook; to have but dreams, this fraction of selves,
as sudden as a fireball; to then relate a slew of sequences, to charge as
responsible—this inner language, this patch of cabbage, fomenting into a giant.
I had to see it—this hemline fever, that further a psych’s destination; as
bosom and stars, as jars and fey—as pondering a red lacewing. Oh to
butterflies, invading the temples, where ink is purple rain; wherewith, this
nimbus, the value of passions, as hellish as purgatory. Let our concaves
scream—this mighty language, as to invoke the bipolar. I saw it clearly, where
thoughts morphed, the two as blended into one image; as having this outcome,
our surface as apparent—our undercurrent as impossible; therewith, is art, this
waving osmosis, that closer to an outline; as sheer horderves, to partake of
otherness, a cycle scribbled in a sphere. This account is wanting—laced in
metaphysics, where we praise concrete tactics; and hereto, as flustered, those
moments to recount, as two lost to a void. We must apologize, for so many
secrets, as disguising illusions; this unreal reality, the attentions of
mystics, sorting through Sara Teasdale; as deeply in vain, the blow of our
blood, struggling to outline our shadows. We value conditions, this sculpture
of structures—forever crushed in a panic; whereto, are chakras, this feeling of
the goddess—our grandiose pegs; to know for living, as melded souls—so far as
comet pressures. It mustn’t be life—our prints scraping psyches, as rising
before dawn; to thump a heart, this inner discussion, as shared with spirits;
wherefore, there’s solace, this lonely elation, buried in a serpent.
