I
envision fantasies, and visualize travesties, hoping for the greater outcome.
Its strife and irritations, gooses and magpies, a metaphor for differences;
where easy is detrimental, this proof of ages, to opt for the difficult path;
as one oldly born, a grave in humans—the bliss of good days; to know
repercussions, this constant flux, to awaken a newborn; and framed ghostly, a
smile in a shadow, winking at the fate of hands; to cry and sip, nibbling
Hawaiian bread—some sort of religion; to know the irreligious, as fully
spiritual, as clenching the garb of death; to envision green pastures, this
valley of minefields, conditioned to one segment. We wrestle sorely, as to
invent joy, this thing incumbent upon humans; to filibuster pain, this nightly
converse, arranged in agendas; to reach at paradise, and capture a fraction,
addicted to neurotransmitters; or better receptors, as to alter a system, where
we stumble upon the supernal; and how for facts, a legacy in a soul, to
experience the esoteric; as visualizing love, something unconditional, to hold
as a parachute through trauma. I’m need to confess—of treasured designs, such
as a triple seven at the table. I had to feel love, to sacrifice a rib, as one
destined for warfare: his blatant mind; her fatal ways; the winds roaming
without identity; as born to chaos, invested in pressures—a fiat as faith; but
ever engrained, for dearly a senate, as headed to the Sanhedrin Court—a feature
of minds, bullied into thinking, where life takes a different dimension; so we
envision fantasies, and visualize travesties, hoping for the greater outcome;
where life is memoirs, this kinetic chain, filtered through metaphysics; as to
chant into a frenzy, or electrocute a suitor—founded in cryptic grains. It must
have been love, as to evade a mirror—bleeding by flesh from eczema; but this is
art—that sullen moment, where ink threshes emotions; so we perish lightly, as
one unaware—of those crucial elements; as losing self—stranded at a game-table,
to sudden upon snake-eyes; where we stress the lose, too tipsy to sing, as
saturated with spirit.
