We perish immoral love, this neural fixation, as sublime as
infusions; the flux of such love, as seeking understanding, as to ensoul a
myth; with more this light, this soulfelt trauma, this crescent allusion; as
merely a fantast, enlove with literature, as to refrain from names; this
locomotive, this inner whirlwind, robbing us of sentences. How have we lived,
filled with dark secrets, a candle lit in private; as privy to scars, that
inner war, this abased mentality; that crooked focus, to lie as living, this
starlit life. I feel bewitched, this feigning of stars, where hell was the
reason. There’s a blindfold, stripped and shredded, as to see your face; this
blurry sight, a friend of pain, the things I thought I knew; but more illusion,
this inner cauldron, this shattered chalice. It mustn’t this life, to collapse
in agony—the heartbeat of a crisis; as a midnight storm, a reversible crystal,
as particles form a dream; this nonchalance, this dazzle of minds, a man too
cold—to see for warmth, this inner ghost—this struggle of imps; as born this
love, this marvelous woman, this lore of wisdom; to cry this life, as a mental
oracle, or rather a potion for love.
I’m
airborne, this axis of life, this outward balance, this comet as a soul; the
walls are damp, shredded through tears, this inward eclipse; as frying
purgatory, where chains unlatch, while souls retreat to grottos; this epoch
event, purchased by no man—this immortal fount, this hive of heartstrings, to
see your earth, the material of firebrand, soon set ablaze. We’ve known for
pain, as complaisant as owls, a bit beyond skepticism, staring at stoic wings.
Oh the flecks, as mere articles, flaming through lies; this art’s demand, that
fatal heart, pulling where gods retreat. Oh to feel it, this blasé spiral, as an
attic desensitized—an eyelet of a future; for mere the thought, as fixed in
pulsations—a woman he couldn’t ignore.
