We examine life, while sprouting truths, this tension of
joys. Be it by nature, this inner predicament, as one laying claims to
forgiveness: this harsh weather, this tinge of happiness, wrapped in
sentiments. In a somber moment, wheels begin to churn, while an axis strikes a
nerve. Caves are flushed; by which, letters are floating, while therapy becomes
essential: this need to channel, where beast scribble murals, such vivid
tapestries. Our reach is waning, searching for excitement, too afraid to seize
the castle; wherewith, are hives, this fleet of bees, embedded in one’s brain:
this rich infusion, if but one cigar, finding solace is sobriety; if but a
second, while pacing thoughts, this friction of unrest. Psychs watch, painting
hummingbirds, lost in lush meadows. To return to justice, a world disappears,
probing at church-beating-hearts; that frightened child, roaming adult-life,
while sipping blueberry tea. We measure love, whereby, to find love, afraid to
unmask; but unmask we must, if to feel that joy, our tears knitted upon skies;
where soreness trickles, into beige lagoons, expressed through heartfelt
smiles: that inner person, affected by warmth, but jaded dearly; while laughs
ache, through perfect armoires, our dress a code of façades. Something probes
us; this fabulous force, scratching at heartbeats; to miss that feeling,
estranged in this world, living from premise to premise; whereto, are deductive
thoughts, cleaving to audible cries, where certitude demands conversation; as
to unarm facts, stressing through induction, afloat this wave for balance. This
condition we live—linked by chains, ever to investigate life: our brilliant
paintings, our tapered honesties, our realizations; to float through grays,
destined for enchantment, crying to cherish our inheritance. But what of
knowledge!
