I’m with need to live, as cased in marbles—this messy life;
while serpents circle, so deep within, but shadows of perfection. I live it
torn, filled with feelings, as pruning a sun-fire; this majesty born, as to
drill our souls, pushing through this inner chasm. There’s a Persian rug, this
inner domain, a series of souls kneeling in prayer; to render pastel grays,
plus, plum filled pains, this lump plaguing his soul. I feel exhausted, as a
cycle churns, even a simile of rain; to die to live, as living to fly, if only
to master that feeling; as to finally flee, a sea of monsters, this inward
reflection; for the war is self, this topaz scar, those sapphire eyes: staring
while mourning, or clenching while grieving, as a testament to destruction. I’m
sipping while typing, this turquoise twilight, attempting to monitor each
thought; this subconscious self, in need of intimacy—the puce of this scream;
as mourning blood, this gothic gravel, as shadowed in deep torment; this
skyward fount, the heartstrings of motion, hoping to feel our firebrand; as
caved within, this skeptic of dreams, this cynic of graves; as pushing pages,
this outward stoic, an eyelet of shame; to know for certain, this inward
dwelling, this spiral of corralled webs; as too, this blasé feeling, to have
for granted, this luscious passion; as feeling so beige, a banquet of
intensities, as to render oneself mute. I’ve cried at nightfall, plastered in
iron-grays, at war with insistence; to dine with love, as a friend of his war,
at core a stranger to self. We perish—immortal pain, as stressed beyond
attentions;—struggling this neural volt, this sublime airwave, as captured in
this flux; to feel for fixed, this inner division, as pulled at internally. We
can’t but breathe, ensouled by chaos, as soulfelt as a sudden explosion; that
inward dream, as giving life, as bold as love.
