Energy Vehicles

While jolts are ramped, this alarming heart, our suns are shimmering come salutations; or that midday volt, permeated by concentration, where souls are masterful;—in search of greatness, that inner illumination, while charged by a thousand temples. This mind of mystery, this wave of canoes, flitting through midair; this underground meadow, this brook for shadows, that screaming awareness; where souls jitter, as cages open, where caves are mystic passions; to feel this arc, surging through comets, alas—our seconds whisper names. It became this life, this promise of music, while preserving our courage: to hydroplane marsh, while diluting malice—this culture of faceless flames; where a soul is raptures, that mind of inquiry—pausing through several sensations; while often it comes, that major impact, as to devastate perceptions: this mind—a vehicle of hearts, this outer intelligence, as to select for projection; while piercing caves, as to often awake it—this vest of omniscience. One is gathered in presence, as fueled by communities, albeit, as awakened in self; this touch of strength, while wailing in spirit—just enough to rejuvenate; while often absent, as saturated in jolts, as awaiting pious illumination. Our realms are mystic, whereat, are scars—these terrible dreams;—for to harness one, is to awaken contrast—this mystery we can’t define; while so close to life, this planet of waves—charged with this rollercoaster;—as jaded in parts, this wonder of sacrifice, this peace infused with detriments;—but more this force, this inner thermometer—rising in pressure; for this is life, this fantastic dream, as created in reality; as to calculate spirits, by mere a thump, to know for meditation; wherewith, are ruses, this deep deceit, as to wrestle with principalities.         

Comparison This Life

I loved the idiocy—this vacant charm, absent of deep character; this fly by night, this feral swing, as moving without recognition; but more to yearn, that cultured person, as honest while furious; for life grieves, where time scorns, this vehicle for heartache; to pump his heart, or to clutch her soul, this nature of koans. I died to love us, this impression of love, while distorted this agony; to face music, as pure symbols, dancing upon a blackboard. I knew to leave us—where hell was home, this haven for fools; so young the heart, addicted to chaos, to live it as life; but I met a soul, this paragon of warmth, as to advise one of mischief; this inner star, glowing as to put to shame—those persons disgracing humanity. So let it be love, that hinders love, aside for malice; this cerebral cake, mistaken as life, to wrestle over mishaps; for we love a star, that far from perfect, but candid to inform us: of woes and grays; of tears and love; of this soft patience; to scream his mind, or wail her soul, that closer to forbidding kisses. I watched in anguish, this beautiful dove, for ours is myth and fancy; this inner banquette, stressing through kryptonite, this weakness for living winds. So gently we move, in deep admiration, that further from dynasties; this wealth of pressures, guided by favor, to see her and nod softly; as a misborn union, while we wonder of life, that fantasy crying. I saw her, this cultured creator, reminding me of my grief. I heard her, fighting for love, to find it this paradise. Our arts are furies; our pains are nuances; our love is masterful; as waning in glories, as waxing in treasures, as writhing through tensions.  

Out of Decisions

I’m lost in us, sipping fuchsia wines, and russet wings; as granted this death, this slanted gin, that grin that couldn’t perish. Try this life, a world of lies, and knitted agendas; to have given soul, for something incomplete, as having to live with it: this outer terror, this nonchalance, this child that grieves; for mother’s angry, as the world pauses, a filter that’s indifferent. I came to life, but a child for souls, but a ghost for woes; as courted that breath, this hurl of patience, as forced to secede; where actions are myth, this inner sociopath, and outlining our lives. (A day later) Our sun is moving, while daughters muse—such wearied by life; that calm chaos, that soothing disorder, that meditative passion; while consumed the nights, feuding with dreams, to feel that beat; where songs sing, as eyes grow heavy, staring at a would be friend. I know for lowness, fighting with decisions, as hoping for intervention; this marksman’s bow, or a mermaid’s kiss, as too a professor’s critique; this land of psychs, too professional to see, that a human is more than statistics. I remember wildness—such fluid chaos, before our years grew rigid: I remember love, as this shallow thing, but churned for through hearts: to have definitions, for all but life, as to embark upon that journey; where scholars ask—of difference through nuance, where daybreaks are such sameness; that casual air, that long flowing mane, those beats that drum through essence; as churning with delicacy, our tiptoeing nature, devastated partly by love. It shouldn’t be real, to possess such passion, as confined to such standards; that hopeful control, that rigid ruler, those eyes that condemn; as to live decisions, refined by few, as one absent from mirrors; to see a reflection, while too soon forget, that person screaming for coordination. I preach to a choir—this religious tense, while tenses are mused upon; that probing light, to feel it come morning, as to snatch something to abate sensations: this faraway land, this inner exhibition, our thoughts disregarded; as to feel so gray, our reasons but fiction, our tears but camouflage.          

I’m Just Fleeing

It swells hearts, these gritty tears, as afraid to cry; this inner portal, this Japanese Garden—our father’s holiness. I died so young, and arose so brave, this cave spitting thunder. Is it real: We can’t forgive, while deeply in the wrong? Oh the hypocrisy, as claiming innocence—this distorted mind; to climb this grave, as pushing soil, our fingers clawed in dirt. I take it back, every drop of love, as one confused; that heartland soul, those droopy eyes…that failed convergence; to see this hour, as a broken glass, as slammed against pride. We picture insanity, for its different than us, a man with a thousand women; or more a woman, with a thousand lies, pushing for harmony. It couldn’t be real; but yet it’s real; this fever—her dreams. I crossed a lake, a woman so near, to finally regain gravity; where hell was loosed, to extend a miracle, our honor as a vehicle; to see us this love, as distant as God, as flavored as rainbows; plus, a daughter, peering into facts, afraid she can lose love. Days are buried, the gravel is grieving, and mother has come back; while monsters smile, to close such pressure, this web upon closure. I knew a child, a room with strangers, and this foul odor. They called it crack, this demon’s dungeon, where souls morphed into centaurs; as such deep aversion, this Argus eyed man, too young to vote. How to live, while mother dies—this fraction of the rules; as born to nanny, as to bless her soul, a man fighting to live; where closets speak, and dungeons scream, while souls lurk terrified alleys. I saw a man; they called him father; and oh this disconnect; as fueled for games, to pursue this craft, that closer to passing life; this hectic death, those proper flowers, as a wilting sign.  I met an imp, and took it for granted, this woman with a plan. We died like faith, this disgraced feeling, and stood stalwart at the tribunal; to flavor this fire, as modeled the nights, and pleading as righteous; but no one saw, other than death, as condemning this life.    

Reservoir Cries

I never died, as wisdom pursued, this man that lied; as cried his brains, as special as dormant, as tepid as infatuation; to wow this art, streaming through music, as feeling, Rihanna; this immoderate woman, this fevered icon, this social day call; where hell is magic, this glowing eight-ball, this tempered mistreatment. I never died, this stomach of ghosts, seeping into vomit; where nothing loved, while ever we died, a pistol to his forest. I need a zone, this wandering soul, as our nights failed: this crystal grace, this pedicured rule, this jest with polish. I loved the sights, this illegal run—our father’s jurisdiction; as born this strife, this outer dungeon, our childhood mother’s; where arias dwell, as symphonies sink—into that mystical mountain; those caves she won, those hours he died, that moment they kissed. I’m jaded these nights, a sibling as rival, a sister he couldn’t see; this rustic alley, pitted in our valleys, running through our vacant daddy’s; that art he loved, that way he lived, his semen as a grown wing; as floating adrift, this fading flower, this Buddhist-emotion; while stars fell, as rules yelled, as professors cringed—this moment in time, a peach for a fool, as running through Bethlehem. I never died, as to ever die, a pair of brains, manic; as shooting dice, to feel such hearts, this miracle lighthouse. It was us this garden, this ill-gotten attraction, a reflection of his ills; while mother cried—these tears of loss, for control was unworn; the days of his life, the seconds of her style, that instant we cried. Oh to disappear—seated in a segment, infatuated with love; this feeling, pash, this crooked forbidden, as speckled in jewels. Oh to love us, this fiction in time, as frantic this moment—while earth is bleeding, this storm of woes—our plights of joy.