We
watch for countenances, this contrite intrusion, this homespun feeling; as
luminous chains, fevered forever, enamored by chaos; to dream through weathers,
this withered soul—the wreckage of a gray ship; as living an apparition, this
invisible man, as making home in a basement. We chime on occasion, this something
so partial, as to retreat with a grimace. We tremble and fall, our knees
scraped deeply, at home with such chaos. I love us not, to have loved
before—the doors leading to a village; where souls quiver, an arrow to a heart, as chastising cupid. Oh for keystone trauma, a psych as a by-passer, a
teacher as a phantom; to pardon a symphony, as choked as history—this immortal
flame! I’ve tried to leave it, as pulled by currents, a woman at the tenth tier
of her mind. I’ve shared a secret, for the keen of eyes, to see us drifting
through twilights. Every atom’s a delicacy—the strata of a psychologist, as
celestial as a nun’s photograph; and we mustn’t perish, this vague retreat, to
find for self this grave addiction; to hold but flames, this laudable symmetry,
as balanced as shock-therapy. I fret the crevices, where serpents spin—the
conscience as steep as jadedness; to live in vogue, for but a second in time,
this reverie of discourse; as born too early, or was it too late—this state of
limbo; to know that it was, this thing it becomes, as barefaced as a captured
dream. We read the turns, as churned in violence, to possess such composure; as
sheer anomaly, as to elude the cycle, wherever it claims its opus. It becomes a
dream, this invaluable star, as scarred as a billion souls; therewith, is
passion, as connected to ghosts—a dream within a dream; to sparkle in fatigue,
as born to consciousness, as to deprive oneself of rest; for mere the purpose,
of triggering the bipolar, a secret we must live; but it’s more than life, this
feeling of haste, to organize disorder.
