The mind is motion, a funnel of caves, alerted prematurely;
to activate actions, this somatic affair, staring at would be friends. It
mustn’t be life—as opposed to moments, that determine perception: this faraway
land, so eternal this night, stippled through one event; as to haunt for years,
this inner mechanism—so elusive as upfront. The mind is a kingdom, riddled with
crevices, as to erupt without notice: this mental vineyard, this flooded
heartbeat—the measure of psychic ghosts; to have a dream, as greater than life,
to give substance to life! I knew us not—this familiar grace, sipping on the
verbs of strife; as a gifted child, too far advanced, needled with an awkward
tension. It had to be life, cultured under awnings, where chaos was force: this
torn event, our stations as humbled, destroyed by an inner monster. The mind is
portals—a vest of segues, that peer into madness: this test as screams, this vestibule
walk, this valley of visions; as born design, this telic mistress, fueling this
inward furnace. We mustn’t fret, for this is havoc, as one defeated within: to
grin with mercy, as infused with demons, to pass over opportunity; where the
mind is travels, this here for now, but stressed as a karmic village; whereat,
is mischief, this inner omen, tugging at inventions: such troubled thoughts, to
opt for blank thoughts, to become consciousness. It’s a dangerous lot, as to
respond with instincts, as to embarrass self; but it must be life—as purity
streams, as love through traumas, as this wealth of growth-scars; as fevered
this light, as gentle this soul, peering with suspicious eyes; for the mind
journeys, affected with passions, infrequent with clarity. It’s akin to God, this
mystic force, where time is required; so mind is entity, this force of colors,
this multivalent dimension; where hell seeps within, as this challenge of life,
determined to chisel perfection. It’s more a blessing, this feeling of a curse,
this deep concentration; it’s more a maze, pertaining to wits, a chest as
illumination.
The mind’s a miracle, the essence of life, composed through Mozart; the music of souls, this inner growl, fashioned as to become human. We rapture through minds, to capture through souls—at that vague moment; where minds alter, to see for visions, this want to return;—to that special place, this tomb of Xanadu, impressed with Coleridge; or rather Wordsworth, this fevered soul, collected in a wealth of emotions; to know this dream, as cornered in Beethoven, this mind to produce a legacy; but more is mind—this fatal glory, in need of nourishment;—to perish or fly, where we watch for tears, a person operating as spirit; this darkened force, in need of guidance, for the spirit is a bit too wild; as calm for moments, in need of an overseer, if life is to move smoothly; thus, this force, this inner balance, at once a paradigm for normalcy; to function in streams, affected by woes, as addressed in matrix; this faraway land, grounded in diamonds, this joy far too remarkable.
