It screams in silence, an active imagination, where the
forbidden consents to tandem and madness, rapture and skulls, beaming through
human affliction. We seek control, layered in intimacies, grounded in a series
of torments, as to have this mind, this cauldron of thoughts, this inner
credenza. Our armoires are bleeding, this code of cloths, as mesmerized by
camouflage, this veil of fools, peeking as to see, this level of insanity. We’ve
died our plights, this inner turmoil, attempting to converse with silence,
while hell ruptures, as senses grieve, that closer to a first kiss; to love as
matrimony, this elusive force, as evident as blinking eyes, to ride on high, the
slopes of nevermore, a bit too threaded for green; this nonchalance, captured
by fires, where a voice spoke of tiles and tears, of hearts and blood, as this
cello is resounding madness; the agony of music, to crave this soul, this
reflection perishing through mirrors, to have this death, strangled in
barbwire, our bones dancing to energies; as blended in spirits, this bashful
mixture, as bold as a fool’s curse, to see for mother, this well of purgatory,
as to imagine her fate. It screams in silence, this present aggravation, this
inner fluster, as precious as china,—and seeing this face, while features morph
into something demonic, this twofold dimension, where spirits mingle is
torment. We speak of knowledge, this experiential closeness, revving through
cages, as to find for blockage, this entrance of minds, while ignoring this
screaming veil. Our chattered souls muffled through noises, embellished in
fuchsia visions,—as walls bleed purple, and red drizzles as rain, while wolves
devour scenery, to flood our souls, with the flesh of scars, buried ten tiers
beneath the brain. It’s a reaming journey, to paddle through marsh, hopeful
upon a mayfly,—while something churns, to stir this fury, at a distance from
speaking plainly.
