Pictures Screaming

I thought of meeting us, after so many years of speaking in candor; thus, false lights, for we know not a thing, of two human souls. I thought of greeting us, failing in our pains, but this is too intimate. It’s a check in life, as to check out life, forever that silent need. I crave not, the brighter dramas, as two fixated on love; for such was art, a decade of fawning, as to harden his mind; where love was dying, as daily degrees, as to opt for reality. I drift slowly, as to finally give in, where hope is a breathing fraction—of something distorted, as not to care, of a psych’s bias; as to die eternal, by living this crime, this social infraction. I drift slowly, wherefore, the night has abandoned his soul; thus, the light has invaded passion, where darkness lives, as to scramble a riddle.   

We tease of such things, as devoid of such things, where such a thing breathes; forever his mind, as projected on psyches, as to correlate facts; but nothing his soul, as born to transcend, despite the minor complications. Oh for riddles, where we see regardless, that darkened moment; as to invent dilemmas, cultured as to become, this living phantom. The mind is moving, captured by facts, as one is far too bright; but more to karma, as to return a favor, our plights becoming one. 

I return to checking in, this need to check out, this mental graph within; as torn with fevers, this local challenge, as to ignore the inconsistencies; for love is brilliant, this chameleon love, thrumming the violin of love. I mustn’t for love, this inner force, as coursing through love; the chimney of love, the soot of love, the smaze of love. It couldn’t be real, to hear it as reality, this season of misthoughts; while featured in love, this inner Namaste, as railroad track love.