We strive for born-again, as to atone for life, fraught with
a zealous feeling. It passes through malaise, as for sin on cloud nine, this
havenless friendship. We dispute cycles, suspended in sipping, while charged by
an inner force; to achieve in segments, to dismiss crystal tears, our auras
speaking of solitudes. It becomes apparent, this unfed need, fettered to
circumstance; while needing to fly, as to capture that moment, while cleaving
to wintry habits.
I carved our trestle, this oaken table—the rhapsody of our
seconds; as baptized to glory, this mysterious as nonplus fantast; striving
where they died, this anxious caress, as splendor that inch in time; this
symbol of fools, that faith may expand, or an overwhelming energy. I’ve felt
for both, endearing this soul, to a particular feeling; while dying this life,
as a fraction of joy, this indelible cycle; or an existential wound, filled
with horrors, a mantra on an island in hell; for reading literature, as one so
young—a party where he couldn’t speak; for words withdrew, as liquor became
trite—this daily expense; where souls are printed—with dice and ancestry—this
internal dialogue; as not for vocal, but more a nudging, as to push in a
certain direction; while screaming for certitude, this evil misfortune, as to
envision knowledge from oneself; where possible this art, a man with a melody,
as ink smears upon a brain. Our circuits are ramped, or highly excited, while
music is a chorus of symbols; this thoughtful channel, this web of role models,
this dear woman as a koan; to enliven angst, as I could never know, one wafting
through leaves; as to paint a picture, this auburn brown—such roots but a
vision through time; where linchpins snap, as phantoms blossom—this mind
projecting ghosts. Our river is crying, ecstatic in rapture, a nun bathing in
fury; to know for crevices, this deep chasm, where we feel a fraction of
unfeeling; to know for love, a part I couldn’t feel, while wrapped in a
fraction I do feel. It’s a terrible trauma, this touch of fiction—as actually
his wings; to pursue ambivalence, as if to struggle alone, to imagine separate
worlds; of course, for nuance, but not condition, knotted on a private island;
this false impression, quilted in visions, as reaching for palms and glory;
where he couldn’t reach, for he couldn’t trust, at odds with an infinite
dilemma.
