In due time, our auras shall listen, given that voice of
dreams—to dress sensations, as alive night-kef—that inner scream; to have for
passions, this crispy trench—the wrench of our nature; as feeling for treasure,
this measure of tears, as one courting mirrors; this hand of woes, this crooked
noose, as abandoned to inner dregs. It mustn’t be real, this sign of delusions,
as musing upon a feather; to strike for dialogue, this grave intrusion, as to
wrestle for awakened eyes. Ours is terrified, this phantom of pains, as to
tussle with something forbidden; this daylight image, as courting this desert,
this lively cactus; to imagine this future, something so strange, as embedded
in a heartcave; to grave this soul, so distant from self, to pop a cork and see
a jinni; this chess of life, as granted three wishes, as to wish for more; but
this is excluded, this one cycled mind, as failing to ask; and boxed within,
the days of yore, an infant crowning; but this is myth, to know what he knew,
again a young lad; as mercy for love, and passion for dreams—this tour for
mending broken glass; as a cube in glory, as thrice this life, to call it
unholy; but more to love, to feel your eyes, grieving this heartbeat; as
something poetic, as this inner chant, this illusion that all is well; to crave
for more, as having too much, where focus is a bad dream. He loved her
seething, to calm her nerves, as some sort of cartoon; as mere reflection, to
see his life, as sheer her almond eyes; this colored pain, this beige delight,
as feeling through this chasm of motions; as sheer this death, to grieve for
miracles, as torn the consequence of wishes; where it mustn’t be love, as more than
love, as the support of a universe; to see for heartwaves, this cave of bliss,
as soon to retreat by consequences.
