I spark a clove, forever this nature, embedded in fantasy;
to know for passion, this vision screaming, a woman his wisdom; as born too
soon, to feel forever late, as something a paradox this life; this oxymoron,
the tension of a daughter, scattered in four directions; this allegory, known
as algorithms, flashing and flaming through turmoil; while built in bricks,
this lavish adventure, stressing to contain such fallin’ verbs. I knew her
bleeding this fatal appeal, to lose her to fate; as broken shards, to scrape his
soul, a woman twice his verbiage; as villains vexed, torn this vicious life,
the viscous of a vibrant voltage; as plucking petals, this patient passion,
forever but a part of portraits. I see her living, as a palm to oak, disguised
in the cloak of armor; to see for flames, fevered in sorrows, a patent for
perfection. I was born bawling, this beige affect, as one buried in boiling
balm; to see for days, the last to come, this railroad rusted in resurrection;
as teary his soul, this southern slang, a terrified tantrum; as dying to
live—the daunt of this task, buried and driven. I love us more, as sheer
compulsion, flayed in a guillotine; this mystic vice, this inner madness,
removed from mythic; to charge through chaos, a captive fool, a fraction of
forever. It couldn’t be real, to speak of nothing, while touching a nerve; but
more it lives, this nothing as something, as to rev a reading rage. The days
are mourning, as hired to hide, a haven filled with loopholes; while something
explodes, this whittled soul, as wretched as willful; whereat, are scars, this
inner witness, wimbled by all means necessary; whereto, to fail, for love in
mindful, this mystic a measure of magic; as far too close, to maintain
distance, enlove with omitting words. It couldn’t be real, this inner slave, at
once a victim of inner thoughts; but this is life, the strong as failing, to
resurrect a tunic of salvation. I seek and slide, this vessel of passions,
cringing at a first glance; to remove his soul, as something so precious, this
blanket of woes; as treasured art, this vast vacuum, shredded through private
intentions.
