Let
us examine life—the in-betweens—the fields of hatred; for I rarely address you,
this bundle of passions—this furious woman; but what was death, but a scar to
flesh, as paranoid as a phone call. We lived as phantoms, vying for secrecy,
enlove with make-believe; to finally die, a child as a friend, to convey but a
portion of truths. We loved a riddle, this feigned glory, the story of our lives;
to grieve for seconds, as churning in hatred—this vixen as an inner moth. I
come to you broken, at odds with self, as vulnerable as a toddler; to have but
moments, these feral dreams, as achieved in fantasies; wherewith, are pleats,
this skiing of pains, as engrained as virginities; to have this cliff, a
leaping of fools, as given glory to a swan.
You hate in rage, as a mirror running, to refuse accountability; but
what is life, but terrified tears—this mission of horrified truths; to dance as
giants, as filled with demons—this path fraught with turmoil. It must exist, this need for truths, else
our souls are petrified. I plead an
inner you, to know for treasures, as one that ruined a cave; wherewith, are
fevers—this inner mirror—to awaken in a cold danger. I could but love us, for
the sake of our swan, but pain grieves through reason; to lurk upon self, this
inner chamber, as wrestling introjects; for this is life—the grandest deaths,
as cherished by the unknowing; to perish a victim, to carry this scar, as
knowing for folly. It couldn’t be real, a myriad of deaths, as feeling high
upon a horse; so what is love, to have but a moment, to know that all is
conditioned? I grieve for souls, as the measure of detriments—according to this
evil fate; but let us examine, the torn goodbyes, plus, the fleshly wounds. It
couldn’t be life, as confronted by skylights—that reflect upon these conscious
selves; for reality lives, the angst of our souls, screeching and screaming
against our actions.
