As born alive, this speedy feeling, as cultured to die; as
flaming this life, a woman the bar, a bit too tipsy; and thus, this pain, as
seeping through pores—this lavish odor; and oh so sick, as to want dysfunction,
that deeper the womb; this inner cry, this breath of woes, this death of cloves;
to finally die, as mourned to rise, this inner resurrection; where it wasn’t
love, but more the music, somewhat sick and psychotic; as oh this feature, to
entice a psych, to see it for worth. I cried for thunder, ever to meet her,
that further from running; where soldiers grieve, and mother’s cringe and
fathers perish; to see for lights, this measure of fools, to want that speedish
verse; as hampered by facts, to outlive wit, for we yearn for tensions. I died
this love, this walk he couldn’t bend, as filled with petals; to watch for
winds, as plucking in prayers, the cares of wolves; whereat, is passion, this
forever fatal, sipping lemons and gin; to have for perfect, this inner moment,
as given that lethal shot; where hell is roses, and heaven is hell, forever
that crooked. I love it writhing, as gripping through strokes, to punish our
brains; but what of death, this outward moon, this crystal wall; to forward
affliction, as generational, to offend our child; where dungeons breed, a flock of snakes, that
concerned with breathing; so let it be life, this must for oils, to spread into
fires; as to love pain, for some type of life, as to write into a comma: that
fatal kiss, that lathered womb, this cry ten miles the death; as born to give,
as torn to receive, as horns speak and bleed; for tulips grieve, and gardenias
scream, where Gertrude mourned. It couldn’t be love, as so aloof, and bent
towards silence; to puncture a lung, as filled with wailing, where demons sigh;
but this is life, that inner lose, so close the bladder—to die his life, the
fools of Petrarch, as lethal as a sudden crush.
