Whispers of A Cave, Breaking Perceptions

I wouldn’t but love you; this magnet of dreams, as cast to a forest, where rain is heavy, and serpents are teeming, and souls are screaming; where notions become real, as deprived of humanity, as probing images of a mind. We needed closure, in this world of nomads, seething and struggling for land. It’s for bigger mistakes, that life is crises, as one born to an addict—and more so a queen, vicious as for unseen;—and cruel as a form of receiving notice. [But] more your wisdom, to give us such distance, living as to die a warrior; this fatal appeal, as one a House of Representatives, a chair two paces from trauma. If a would could live, a should would prosper, but life is a House of Cards—or more a Scandal, as a sign of heritage—our cultures enthralled by drama: the reckless lover; the angel of a wife (a bit for impromptu); and the realization that power inebriates. We meet in minds, and dine in markets, and even that unconcerned; as lurking in shadows, reaching for this unforeseen, enchanted by what’s forbidden. I knew us at unawares, as terror unraveled, and we gazed upon energies; where thoughts were treasures, but not for trespass, for life is paved in certainties; where a routine is cherished, to know a pattern, to then abuse such patterns; but pain is good, if modified in measures, as one waxing on and waxing off. I’ve said so little, as one running from feelings, as one unaware of feelings. I need for inventory, this something of a dream, to arrive at this furnace; where could is but a mirage, under-girt in fear, as one seized by a fantasy. [But] this is love, a sense of exploitation, to enliven a current affair; where is is a noun, as opposed to a verb, built seemingly for a surface of musing; whereat, are virtues, a mother with child, a father with pressures; to want what came with stealth, as something too early, for two were growing through a phase. [Yet] more your heart, this non-classification, an ink-pen as a friend, an admirer as an inner dream; to know a would could never be; to know for hybrid passions; to lack and serve this chase of justice, as one deprived of pledging allegiance. It’s more a feel for goods, a closet of black magic, a storehouse of tensions; to strive for better, and chased by demons, as years chisel a subtle sadness.

I’ve said so little, as wanting to utter love, where this is fabrication; for I know us not, aside for images, and images dwell in perceptions; where such are skewed, as slanted by positions, as steered towards protecting egos; to have but a scene, where hell became your eyes, as founded in poetry. [But] still a vision, lingering in a dark place, screaming as losing insanity; to hold a notebook, or better a novel, to see you in every page; this mustn’t be real—this tear of terror, as to realize that nothing cleaves to fancy; whereby, I love for ventures, a raft upon a cloud, easing toward a deep incline; as all the way to earth, this unearthly feeling—the gin of a long goodbye; to drill at panic, as fear explodes, for two shall never explore this justice of a fancy; where days are jasmine, and nights are jasper, and life is a series of it couldn’t happen; to feel such currents, this inner arc, as refined as a pregnant glance. [But] I would to love you, even in fey, this recognition of spirits; for something lives, a modicum of treasures, as believed for purpose; to die one’s heart, as to soar this heart, where majesty becomes an a.m. drumbeat; so more to seeing you, if merely in images, as to let go destroys a hidden art.