I’m
holding back, as to forfeit self, as one semi-abandoned; where it couldn’t be,
this need to control, with purpose to afflict. I died so young, to see it as
grays, as one smitten with a phantom. It must have been life, this russet wine,
to mourn us as contemporaries; this vision of agony, this edifice of pains, as
such joys enthralled by nature. We live in fragments, a vineyard of particles,
to feel us running through pieces. We frown in circles, dearly at passions,
laughing as to sustain sanities; whereat, are standards, even tenets, as
religious as Bishops. I couldn’t find you, after years of illusions, to finally
feel your smile. It’s true to death, this sad resilience, as outlined in
triumphs; to fly so freely, this inner torpedo, fleeing through future traumas;
to drift through tapestries, as searching every pleat, watching as time drains
its subjects. I’m lost in mazes, this stumbling of portraits, this essence as a
dream; wherewith, are eyes, and chills, and storybook lies, plus, this need to
run for congress; indeed, I jest, through serious terrain, driven to go deeper;
as ever this mind, lacking in such degrees, far too impressed with psychs. I
chuckle to feel it, where feelings slept softly, as awakened at a subtle glance;
as to redefine motion, to see it as surging, a feeling thumping behind hearts.
It’s engrained in gestures, a sudden concentration, to ignore it while
ingesting remnants. It couldn’t be true, a mere performance, to stir raw
emotions; and it couldn’t be true, the ornaments of mother—found in another
woman; to fall so deeply, as truly disgusted, pulled by childhood traumas. It’s
deadly this night, where dragons rest, and wolves give birth to gems. We
thought it normal, this household of furies, this piecemeal reality; for born
to chaos, and awkwardly social, racing through orange lights. It was ever this
way, as forfeiting forethoughts, as forever in strains.
