We
drift into chaos, this something within, as challenged at the gates. I fear
this something, as one facing mania, as told to steady drinking; and I know for
loss, composed of monsters, where each yearns expression. I can’t but live, or
either fail, as doing things his own way; to find for nescience, this ignorant
lot, as drifting into a goddess; for issues come, to invade a soldier, as
closer to that warrior. There’s a grave difference—to explode within
thoughts—our hearts a slave of mercies; to chime with passion, this woman of
virtues, as decadent as Simone. I mean it lightly, as to ask for humans, that
struggle with demons; where marrow tickles, and bones rattle—where caves speak
of silence; wherewith, are dregs, and ghetto roots, for one so articulated.
I’ve spoken sooner, as filled with purpose, as exposed to disorder; to find his
way, as lost to love, to know she could never fathom; for thoughts are deep,
this veil of madness, as camouflaged in sentiments; where love be lost,
forsaken to hells, as be it, a crime to utter love; but still this something,
as confused by humans, the likes of which probe insanity; to have for lives,
this fretful event, as to augment one’s intensity; to know for psychs, this
thing of cultures, where both have endorsed principalities. I’m seeing visions,
as a mind overloaded, to seep into Isis; this blatant charm, whereat, are
grays—a warrior in her prime; where we mustn’t falter, if life is breath, this
world of itchy caveats; as born to lakes, aflame our terror-dome, as intoxicated
by art; where something lives, as probing insanity, as to puncture one’s
contour; so tense to soul, this something peeking, as penetrated by influence;
to see as life, this vague response, as feeling something laughing. It couldn’t
be real, this thing as God, as explained in psychiatry; so more to faith, to
ask of persons, studied within a psyche; to search definitions, as ousted by
self, where something can’t be explained; as this proves for God, something
ineffable, as something so close.
