Islands

I’m somewhat found, this terror-dome of feelings, as cultivated through chants; this inner rant, as flustered by introjects, stressing metaphysics. I pull as to see, this lively soul, thriving to return; where islands are sacred, but often lonely, as forced to convene. I reckon a heartbeat, during a.m. hours, this person—my thoughts; as to invade a spirit, this delicate trespass, as too cultured to appeal—to springing lights, and fallin’ arches, this arc too advanced to see

—that faraway land,

where two must mingle,

if only to arrow surprises,

that leap of chi,

to whelm two souls,

as sitting in discomfort; where passion is prayer, this outward contour, as created in turmoil; to carry this energy, where vultures roam, to enter into a different pleat; whereat, is mystery, the powers of humans, at head-high in divinity; to ask of doves, this fatal question, to wonder of longevity; this living life, afraid to sin, where hell would erupt; as somewhat found, to know each thought, a cycle as familiar as breath; to dance aloof, as to protect our homes, where curiosity pushes forward. We can’t but live, as to form to die, this anxious catastrophe; where mothers warn, and father’s growl, as to protect a young song; this bird of wings, forever this dream, as to ruin said protection. It must be light, as to culture the rage, this flame glowing within; to fly in secret, this inner web, interlocked with a family of geese.

I’m with grave needs, as fulfilled in harmony, as to witness a subtle loss; this inner agony, screaming for closure, to address our fellow man. It mustn’t be crux, to infuse this lie, where lux struggles to address; as gravid in rain, this pain of faith, despite the flowing winds; but this is love, this outward affection, as bleeding its reception; to culture for home, this need for security, to know as self the many may live; whereat, is wonder, to monitor souls, as one monitors self; this expectation, this wealth of rain, if souls roam forbidden islands.