Our faces are caged, chained in madness, this perfect
pretension; as caging mirrors, if ever to hide us, from billion dollar walls. I
felt for speechless, to hear this voice, accusing of hiding pain; the rage of
nights, the harms of days, as crazed as gothic sins; the darkness as consuming,
this light of fevers, to want it forever. I’ve charmed demons, a terror to
think, a reality to die; as a credulous fool, eager for longevity, concealed in
traumas; that thing of gifts, that art bleeding, a brush cloaked in blood; so
brush his soul, as to paint a mural—of infinite ghost’s dreams; or garner this
mind, to push passed sorrow, this inner calligraphy—as born this voice, buried
in meters, as thetic as a dissertation. Oh for mercy, to ask without given, or
to scar the powers; where love is myth, this outward disease, as to plead for
love. Its raw this grave, trekking through seas, an upwelling of mischief; to
perish that vein, as living that cycle, even a cliff in Malibu; to hear for
questions, our eyes as speaking—of this deep abyss; as spoken in moments, as
followed by sex, something given with ease; but not for all—that grand
entrance, an interior of sadness; to hold this second, as our dearest life, as
if stranded in a vacuum; for want of mercy, for this rich appeal, to have given
for kibbles; to receive that pain, where another dies, as a secret leaked. It
was but a dream, whereat, a vision, to meet as wretched, and die as
satiated—that torn event, as seaweed for joints, puffing on terror; that
smaller self, as peering at objection, where ears forward the affliction;
wherewith, are hopes, a need to feel cherished, where holding on is
troublesome; for pain abandons laws, both social to moral, this inner
conviction; but more for clenching, this outward frame, this torch of passions;
as roaming catastrophes, in need of therapy, enlove with hoping.
