I searched for, Panacea,
so alive this myth,
where bones exited graves. I’ve watched us speak, this fatal delusion, crossed between psychs and fiction. I know not the measure, featured in psychoses, this element that gives life; this altered reality, as filled with passions, aloof enough to chase. I see us spinning, this web of secrets, where she sits in meditation: an artist of souls, bonded to pressures, enlove with great expansions. I met her to feel her—this riddle to help—where something flew into flight. I wrestle this thought—that shy of evidence, aside for experience; to chime with ghosts, a firefly friend, sipping a pint of Brandy. We never laugh, where genuine is shaky, for both are too far equipped; as to pass impressions, forged in illusions, these persons studied in deception; as loving to sin, as to remain unseen, a bit too clever for selves. I know not the measure, this insane quality, featured in all souls; as to crack sorely, while surfing madness, as never to center again; but this is growth, the old becoming new, this phantom of a human brain; as split in slices, this articulated science, forever present in interactions. I saw not the lightning, chiseled into soulprints, a therapist as a young sage: where hearts would thump, and chi would soar, a person altering personalities; as to say it plainly, where we peak with interest, this condition for sifting secrets. I know not the measure, as to exit this dungeon, where lights are brilliant: this father of woes, this mother of comforts, this psych examining both measures; to omit his name, as grounded in friction—this art the pressure of her souls. I’m not for sameness, and not for blandness, cautioned at this crucial juncture; to retreat to meadows, as to pause for petals, this young manic forging visions; where tides clash, this high-rise of minds, beyond the rubric of coddling.
where bones exited graves. I’ve watched us speak, this fatal delusion, crossed between psychs and fiction. I know not the measure, featured in psychoses, this element that gives life; this altered reality, as filled with passions, aloof enough to chase. I see us spinning, this web of secrets, where she sits in meditation: an artist of souls, bonded to pressures, enlove with great expansions. I met her to feel her—this riddle to help—where something flew into flight. I wrestle this thought—that shy of evidence, aside for experience; to chime with ghosts, a firefly friend, sipping a pint of Brandy. We never laugh, where genuine is shaky, for both are too far equipped; as to pass impressions, forged in illusions, these persons studied in deception; as loving to sin, as to remain unseen, a bit too clever for selves. I know not the measure, this insane quality, featured in all souls; as to crack sorely, while surfing madness, as never to center again; but this is growth, the old becoming new, this phantom of a human brain; as split in slices, this articulated science, forever present in interactions. I saw not the lightning, chiseled into soulprints, a therapist as a young sage: where hearts would thump, and chi would soar, a person altering personalities; as to say it plainly, where we peak with interest, this condition for sifting secrets. I know not the measure, as to exit this dungeon, where lights are brilliant: this father of woes, this mother of comforts, this psych examining both measures; to omit his name, as grounded in friction—this art the pressure of her souls. I’m not for sameness, and not for blandness, cautioned at this crucial juncture; to retreat to meadows, as to pause for petals, this young manic forging visions; where tides clash, this high-rise of minds, beyond the rubric of coddling.
