Our
lives, as lambent flares, associated in wines; the call of my life, the thrall
of being unsung, as flung into cultures, nibbling azotic fruits. The tales of
tears, as a twofold agenda, as born to cleanse and cause pain; where lights are
terrifying, this feat of fools, torn with a gust of love. We die discretion,
treasured as larks—of primrose rain; to flourish this agony, as Mozart
composing, to die every syllable; the cries of flagons, that dirge of souls,
this music so classic; as to walk us gently, into hells and dungeons, a requiem
as a sacrifice. It mustn’t be lust, as to burn at flesh, this pleat of Satans;
as a soft radiance, perceptible to none, as seen by the many; to carve
Beethoven, this pleat of sinners, alive an orchestra within; as having this
night, the mirth of our love, standing in Grand Central Park; as playing the
piccolo, as one ballets, an apple as never so richer. It’s more this chorus,
this litany of eyes, as soulfelt strings; to panic this music, a parade of
veils—our yonic abuse; to fiddle twilights, our lyre of love, as haptic towards
a torn flight; so let’s for mercy, as drowning in oboes, as tiptoeing flute
symbols; to hold her breath, as a symphony of lies—the sweetness of deception;
as proud to perish, and peeved to suffer, in flames as an orphan; to cherish
this mind, as blatant as sky-falls—the nectar of violins; as seeping through
souls, so born for success, to wrestle each notion. It mustn’t increase, and it
must decrease, this feeling screaming in mercy’s ear; as horrified by love—the
fuel of fools—our brows cringing; to see excitement, as to feel it now, as old
and young as pristine wine; to give so little, as driving through drums, that
concerned about failure; as having this life, the brass of this heartbeat, to
leave and receive deception.
