Swan Eyes

I feel us, Love—as watchful as swans, peering at a naked future; where fever is spirit, the likes of souls, seated in, Namaste. Its body, mind, and heart, stressed through systems, this focus of temples: as born to achieve; as melded to wisdom; as chirping this silent language. I feel us dancing, ever this mint of jewels, pulling at aloof ladders—this shade of fuchsia, or an evergreen gray, this magnet of infusions; where tears are soft, as opposed to violent, as to avoid an upheaval. I worry about this—seeping into caves, fretting our whereabouts; this thing of rains, as soot and stars, captured by a sudden light; that faraway dream, a picture as a moment, as both are startled by gems; those inner seasons, that mental lagoon—the perch of hearts. We see it in souls, that rounded contour, flooded by neurotransmitters: We see it in souls, that inner sanctuary, ushered through Spirit: We see it in souls, a mixture of the two, as it was meant to be; this fury of flavors, this flurry of powers, as stationed in awakened souls; so flow this river, as greeted by ghosts, alert to something ecstatic; for life is moving, our grays are morphing, while morals are raging; to see such wealth, this inner art, where intuition mingles with intellect: that thing of mindstuff; those inner hassles; that castle about territories. They lead to valleys, colored by perception, as needed to exist; this ideal world, painted perfectly, even our false senses; but love is honor, as to build a fortress, a firefly inside a psyche; that warmth about essence, that moth of passions, as seen in outer activities. (A moment of silence) I love us, notwithstanding, probed by inner motions; to have it as yogis, or Christians, of salient Buddhists. I should contend, but this is violence, where a grandmother sets the tone; for this is love, to settle emotions, while standing firm on ethics; that outer ought, that inner tug—a set of feelings waxing with eloquence; to care beyond measure, as seeing such tragedy, as years morph into resentments; but know for love, this thing of peace, while nurtured through potent compassion; for this is life, this thing of souls—living through a set of perceptions.

Sightseeing Within

I see aesthetics, this acrylic woman, inebriated, slightly: I see wind-chimes, moving with spirit—and such personality. I combed a feeling, such emotional eyebrows, purring with innocence; where laundry dwells, this need for cleaners, this naked terror; something so rounded, frantic by a hidden nature, becoming a by-passer; to flourish with passion, this naked silence, nestled in sheets; as to rub mane, combing through traumas, such platonic friends; as charged with feelings, a summer’s windmill, steady and snaillike. I see equations, this multiple force, as if creating numbers; this purposed woman, buoyant with treasures, but filled with sullen reigns. I fainted to hear it, such nonchalance—this intimate thing, as a present horror—as even a day-scare, despite with child, moving through cities, as loving without aim. It was essence this thought, to learn of such failures, studying this measure of conditions; and it was yoga, this inner spree, as entering this voice of reasons. I’ve seen love, pillaged by insecurities, where fawning grows offensive; and I’ve seen love, stolen by confidence, where two compliment such value; and I’ve seen affection, this infinite need, where pairs bargain the silent future.  We’ve awakened a feeling, as so distant to cherish, woven into this pleasing presence—while furnished with love, and heated as never seen, whereto, green, as privileged with feelings; to have this current, this electrical fire, sighted in temple—that faraway glow.  The meadows are lighted—this furnace of fractions, staring at life’s trestle; as born with love, those diehard emotions, sailing the sundry sanctuaries; to see that line, a portrait melting within, as given life through breath; this fashion of tales, as reaching for hearts, a market within a parade; that source of trials, at ease with sightseeing, while skiing this slope of prose.         

Reality Bends Reality

I hear chatter, but so distant are lies, that creeping insanity; to have this purpose, wrapped in falsehood, while expecting longevity. This wave is tensed, bleeding for mercy—those days feuding with lights. They ever burn, that glory for naught—and seemingly rambling; but I’ll get there, seething with fury, where anger is exercised. I pardon this love, as afraid to find it, where parents would cringe—that living ghost, as to intercede, grieving that night-scare. Sights are heavy, while woe is resting—awaiting something mental; that wrestled thought, those gorgeous eyes—that contour of fevers; as to alter reality, this illusion within a dream, as to find reality. It’s so surreal, this jazzy feeling, this sorrow seeping into prose; that faraway garden, filtered in purple roses, while I tread this bark of yesteryears; those hewn corners, as crying in private, while awake to sheer insanity. We flee to see it, this monster of tales, as it lurks in realities; that failed approach, spewing nonsense, while expecting longevity. The darkness of life—while buried in passions, to see one as misappropriating—this furious feeling, as chided in mirrors, where sincerity is overdue; that tale of woes, to hear as it chatters, this non-vocal entity. I’m coming to senses, engraved with frictions, and flattered by a subtle gesture; while nurses mourn, fraught with this feeling, but to witness a miracle; this place of love, where hell is near, as we war off its tentacles; but why for such thoughts, as to garner such empathy, to believe he suffers with friends; that nonchalance, as to see her angry, as to realize: she’s always angry! I soon return, fleeing from islands, peering into something fictional; this torn essence, this contradiction, as chattering with feelings; those gray enchants, those beige deserts, that color we can’t see. They call it life—this in-between, peering into sober eyes; that second about wisdom, that claw pulling, while reality bends reality.    

We Yearn for Magic

The soil was rich, as to suffer atrophy, while we loved where we could; that warm glamour, too advanced to settle, where love becomes visions; this thing of times, desperate for three months, that fawning wave; to disdain comfort, this need for passion, that fiery saturation. We loved through experience, while to repeat that thing heard, featured at familiar restaurants. I enjoyed this woman, that sexual radiance, when words stung souls. We needed for pleasures, bagging petals in Ziplocs, while placing roses in bibles: it became us to laugh, as so thin our nature, spread from seas to islands. We never danced, or played the violin, while our piano was gestures of rain. Tears embedded love, yearning for solace, as to crumble during lovemaking. We sought responses, something so intimate, as one attached in moments; where hearts thought to ballet, while souls played the trombone, and pruning became an obsession; this thing of envelopes, sealed in silent traumas, reaching for this panacea; as rooted in souls, those outward jewels, where self felt so lonely; this room of warmth, this vibrant love, while minds ached with angst: screams would enchant; torture became this feigned addiction; and love was but an anchor for seconds.  We stole something, biking through vacuums, running while a kettle whistled: that inner voiceprint; those solemn scars; as to remember such brokenness; that thing with love, as shivering to be held, while roaming a distant fantasy; as to cry for laughter, this hysterical mind, freezing pies as a keepsake.  It could have been us, wrapped in substance, cringing at the likes of others; and it should have been us, reaching for cellos, while writing music; as it had to be us, cherishing seconds of love, trembling in another’s arms; this thing of times, this repeated past, while abandoned to three months: this sorrow of souls, where years are so vibrant, staring at bulbous eyes: where truths are lived, through the richest soil, as given time to breathe.

Silent Forces

There’s darkness, this was that is, as segue to light; that inner fever, that seeping whisper, while caves erupt. I knew it not, as to lose mind, scraping grime out of mindstuff; to see it neatly, this thing of souls, charged by silent forces. It couldn’t be real, as awakening volts, or that deep possession; that tulip of power, that lotus of praise, that meditative transcension. I’m indebted sorely, at war with passions, while asking to remain human; that heated prayer, those sudden jolts, as to enter a different room; where souls are floating, whereto, desiring meaning, as to fall in-love with powers. I see us staring, peering at electricity, falling through arcs; this supernal life, as harnessed by minds, this permanent way of living; to enter a den, and posture gently, as to generate a fortune. We seek to share it, to impart it to seeds, while subject to intrusions; those inner crevices, filled with hells, this upheaval of character; to practice Bhakti, and die that fortress, falling and gripping for guts; while seasons morph, this psyche as soul, traveling in stillness. It couldn’t be real—that inner boomerang, or that upward procession; to dig so deeply, peering at a hidden self, as to recalculate faith; this science of fools, as to distinguish charms—rising into a glorious being; this power for souls, as to meet our reflection, at once a familiar feeling; to then retreat, or to aid from afar, that closer to touching shoulders. I beckon for light, while trekking darkness, seeking to valve this waterfall. It’s merely a thought, as to remedy pain—if only to build a daughter’s castle; this deep enchantment, slipping through a trance, awakened to a higher meaning; that space about minds, cleaving to sanity, uprooted but planted deeply; as sighted in visions, while to finally meet, at once this air of charisma; this mystic art, gathered at gardens, this place within; where soil is rich, this tender seed, this thing of souls.  

When the Pastries Flatten

There’s overcast, that blasé river, flowing into flatness; whereat, this sullen tide, ebbing close by, this terrible entity. It pauses life, forbidding prose, this reminder of déjàvu. I’ve been here: pacing the unconscious, awaiting my arrival, and maintaining blankness; this earth of daughters, as partial to wisdom, this light-fire within an apple; to court such majesty, while standing still, as to surf that inner character. There’s neither flame nor water—nor seeds nor flowers—only a vast space. I wonder of reason, her full extent—somewhere that void of nothingness. They call it peace—this lack of activity, when neither hell nor heaven visits; but spirit is there—surveying temperaments, at ease with this probing space; to have that feeling, while gripping at an inkling, motivated through actions; for the foot must move, as to engage motion, and then there’s jogging; that flight to sea, to witness such tears—that moment of deep appreciation; to wrestle this force, this visitor of times, touching this taste of prose. It’s neither sorrow nor ebb—but this point zero, as to wait for either a positive or a negative one: it seems so low, dragging this metaphor, as we hope for a solid six; that axis of temperaments, as to seesaw but a little, if merely to feel this life; but never this feeling, as leaning towards sadness, but refusing to trespass. It resists sleep, a neighbor’s imposition, at once a force of wakefulness; that concentration, as searching for eyes, that delicate pendulum; for it often slants, either for or against joy, while coloring with bold and thick lines; this thin pressing, looming as to sing, while posing something imminent. It appears an entity, and semi-dramatic, this intimate subtlety. It lives with wings, arriving during resting hours, as to harass those particles of sunlight.  I spark a clove, refusing to buy liquor, as not to form a habit; wherewith, are miniature ghosts, and long irritations, as to further insights; this nature of prose, as hoping to reach that one capable of a sudden shift; that need for contrast, as to outwit depression, as to outwit joy’s hiding place. It’s more a project, as to enter the public, peering at this angular web. It’s geometric, but mainly organic, this uneven war. If to want for love, we chase it; if to want for food, we seek it; but to want for more than space, at this science of mind, we occupy ourselves until it pops.       

Novice Hearts

We knew little about love—this radical flavor, as more the minutes of time; this enchanting wave, this academician—so grounded in prose; to bend each cuff, floating through space, as trained as lawyers.  Its hell to lose her—the gavel of graves, feigning this business-like nature; as afraid to feel, a depressive sight, at years with repressed memories: they haunt and sting, trickling into futures, whereof, it becomes difficult to love. Trauma is relived, where love is uttered, as radiant as a northern star; but more to romance, that second of closure, where tears pour forth.  It’s a medical love, this thing of therapy, where two exchange hats; that inner glint, soaring at segments, at war to retreat; as born to love, this fragile feeling, where love is most earnest: those facial imprints; that city of souls; those embroidered messages; to scream with passion, this lot of fools—as digging deeper into dungeon cries.  We live as miracles, that feeling of worth, peering into our vulnerability; that wrenching ache, etched into beauty, seated at a table of insecurities; to needle this comfort, while becoming familiar, as to utter, “I know us.”  There’s homes and cars, and jewels and scars, this world pleading for order; as scraped with love, that singing art—embedded in the roots of screaming oaths: that thing of measures; those citadel eyes; that crooked way about vengeance; as something light, engrained in a misprint, to have awakened the children; where it mustn’t be pain—those mischief eyes—the words of a probing son.  We picture our contours, to imagine a private love, where hell shall never unravel; for ours is grizzle, as dense as bone, causing our characters to soar.  Where was love—while suppression ruled the arts; for life was mere breath, this robotic motion, shredding a tented mind?

Freezer or Oven: Which is more Kosher?

I live in fantasies, mingled in reality, flavored in the imperceptible. I ponder a poet, fraught with seeing eyes, aloof at first glance; to mistaken pain—this thing of woes, as often used as segues; but it couldn’t be love, for one evolved, while pulling pagan clouds. The nights are sunny, where our angst is beige, sitting in an ageless office. I’m at woes to confess, this inner nature, glazing over a beautiful contour; this wakeful soul, hiding but seen, those feelings we must exhaust. Our years are polished, this easy lot, a bit frantic with visions; as touching passions, this grimace of souls, pleading that minutes show mercy. I never could—this thing of fools, a bit emphatic with lust; that grave invention, while spirits tug—at something vile within; to pull a comma, this sleeping monster, at odds with this written word. It couldn’t be real—and so claustrophobic, this pair of maniacs; and it had to be real—these sober souls, at war with this peaceful nature; for hell is burning, this inner yearning—for total chaos: this wild wolf; this psychic chi; that thing racing to say goodbye; where this is life, that something for nothing, afraid to ask that favor. I live in fantasies, mingled with foolishness—a poet and his den; that fatal excuse, as to ruin innocence, where passion erupts prematurely; so it couldn’t be real, this song of songs, gazing at this beautiful shrine; that silent ache, that must refrain, as years morph into mania; this silent season, as rude as treason, pushing through boundaries; as seizing the moment, this morning regret—one filled with a pounding skull; so more to kosher, or even copasetic, that trail of trains headed east; while love is deaf, as to never move, while beauty loathes his soul. It couldn’t be real, as accused as callous, where action would burn a bridge; so why for souls—this thing of woes, as assumed as normal?

There’s a Buddhist’s Nature

It’s a lost cause, this thing we say, pondering a Buddhist swan; this ageless beauty, tangled in a twofold meaning, yearning for a mother’s light; where it couldn’t be real, this claustrophobic office, a woman half his size—searing and seizing, to conquer souls, that close to erupting. I knew it early and kept it secret—this thing claiming natural minds; that god of science, that morning shower, that armor engrained in deep belief; this Zenist soul, inscribed upon windows—even a bird greeting a mystic. I’ve found it heavy, this split of lines—a man focused on morals; this thing of fools, as to see this heart, as naked as a batch of sorrow; that deep attraction, engraved upon cliffs, as we leap into dimensions; to feel for love, this inner meaning, while one escapes to a private island. It mustn’t be real, while years churn—this cauldron of crystal fates; to which, were shattered—while shards grew—this thing of weeds. I’ll leave it be—for hell is near, while I plead for a gift; and I’ll hold it close, the strength of women, while warring for silence. I wonder often—of a tender touch—the odor of un-brushed breath; that inner mourning, as scolding secrets, while contemned within: that fatal life; that fatal cry; those inner excuses; to do it this way, this murder of souls, as lying to claim redemption. It mustn’t be us—absorbed in laughter, raging at mirrors; this deep infraction, that torrid conference, as one giddy with guilt; or even pain, or even joy, for this world is filled with lies; wherewith, was trust, that shattered friend, to have lost so much; but could it be, this zeal for truths, to have done that thing with wailing lungs? I fret and panic, gazing at mischief, afraid to confess attraction; while it shouldn’t be—this constant chase, as one eager for the deepest pools; to swim with malice, as accused of grace—this pace of fools; but more to love, this grand piano, as lifted to the seventh floor.

Midnight Sunrise

I was raised with issues—as they molded a household, while mother ran to pain; this furious man, this furious dream, fraught with liquor and cocaine. We wanted normal, this figment of thoughts, as raising hell against consensus: this thing of color, where men ruled, and wives bask in their glory—with little this face, while chasing phantoms, as told to behave. There’s little comfort—in this bias space, yielding in silence to Susan B. Anthony; but I’m soon to shift, as fleeing to home-base, a city of scoundrels puffing; while filled with violence—a seven year old witness, as frightened as a baby’s fall; to ask for dreams, where mother is dignified, and miles from inhaling smaze: this woe of souls; those catered sorrows; that question of personhood; as distraught deeply, flitting into chaos—the hinges given up the ghost; while persons perish, embraced in emptiness, with little that want for integrity.

[….]

I’m more a man, as to wrestle with demons, and fortified in raptures; this thing of souls, a man for terrors, drifting through retrospection; while giving forgiveness, if but to grow, hassled by low frequencies. It couldn’t be real, where it meant for nothing, as abandoned to hatred. I merely confessed, this thing of evils, to live as one deprived; where this is life, as one so smug—I had to reveal it; this torture of souls, if only to heal, while she continues to ruin lives; but more to wisdom, that fatal scar, for many refuse to take a lose: that terrible feeling—a wound to flesh, this casual hatred; where hell is livid, this place of minds, as cultured as aristocrats: that feeling of in-between; that notion of confusion; that highbrow feature; to meet with death, this casual dream, as returning home with fevers; that act of treason, that lying tongue, as bearing child. It couldn’t be real, this face of chills, as forced to cherish daily.

Introspection

I’m a grumpy soul—filled with fervor, at odds with human nature. We know not to harp, as we scream to melody—the ways of fools: the darkest nectar; the sweetest hells; that tickle of slanted sanity; while not to soar, this lot of fools—I’m put to shame by love; this mystic furnace, that low thump, as affected by mere images. We know more to sing, as to seize the day—a paragraph as a greeting. I’m filled with visions, probing years to see—this higher self, this chi of seeds; as filtered in madness, a Catholic as a father, a mother as a Protestant; this thing of songs, while birds chirp spirit—those avenues fraught by closure. We awaken passion, the minds of nuns, centered in a Buddhist’s nature; while time skips through coals, those caves about silent souls, as living this ghostly path. It couldn’t be us, this mystic history—a set of pigeons that flew the coup; and it couldn’t be real, those years to pass, at war with this plaguing love; but such are tears, treading forbidden waves, while meditating Popes; this fuel of flames, this feral fever, this electric power; to have lusted this soul, for a life that wouldn’t be, as grounded in those sights of woes. I love us more—seeped in covenants, warring not to covet thy neighbor: this vest of cries; this howling wolf; one stationed minutes towards destruction.  The Spirit is moving, chiming with its nature, slicing souls gently; while ecstasy grieves, as this need for more, where darkness arrives at three a.m. I’m certain this night—of weary souls, pledging through the lightning; this chorus of passions, filled with fusion, a heart that drips with music.  It couldn’t be real—this pace of watching, while eyes calculate rhythms: those silent tears, musing through magic, censored by ripples; and it couldn’t be us, that inner presentation, while yearning to disobey.

Temptation

I’m lost to fantasy, at war with dialogues—our faces cringing with truths; as blades trickle, our blood and salt, at heaven’s nursery—our hearts; while confused our minds, at peace with panic, pressured into liaisons; this dream of fools, cultured upon chaos, to long for this never-would; that place of pain, this inner discharge, praising this love for God; while hell freezes, and tales puncture—this place of woes. I love us more, ten miles to hell, as maintaining such distance. I hate us more, while chained to essence, this thump longing for tensions; that strong contention, as argued to love, so close to a cave of shames. It couldn’t be real—whereas, it had to be real—this winter storm; where hearts shattered, as filled with disdain, while years morphed into attraction; that thing about words, that literature about fools, that time to reflect—therewith, this scar, bandaged through faith, to peer at eyes filled with praise. I feel us more, this sickness of souls, while we bat at nevermore; this hostile chase, as to sleep with peace, while dreams flicker into madness. I heard a name, sitting in vacancy, as empty as deceitful koans. It mustn’t be us—that second of pleasure, while running to this secure space: longing for turmoil, as meant for living, this sickness gripping gravel; to have dimensions, as filled with terror, that instance as explosions of pains.  I soon drift—as to ponder a friend—a city of platonic years; where arts invaded, and prose skated, filled with an interior amore; that thing of force, pushing at dialogues, to which, friends fall softly; but this is life, to which we subject—a fist full of fires; as truth would live—it becomes a norm, to exist a flaming furnace: to graduate lies, and mobile this chance—where friends part a rustic dance: our enchanted souls, pinning through fevers, at tenses with fluctuations; that voice of dreams, to meet by fate, as running towards our safety zones.

I Saw a Rainbow

We prided ignorance, after being laughed at, that mischief of souls; where closure languished, this chasm of thoughts—the genesis of color lines; but more to love, this daughter of souls, as perishing to golden eyes; while gifted to live, this mental ambition, as rounded in carriages; that arrogant smile, that humble gait, this mixture of intensities. We laugh to see it, one so cruel for love, as to protect a common interest; but back to races, this need to resist, while liquor is being guzzled—and our peers are feeling hate; that thing of tears, molded within a household, where one is often a bit flippant—especially, about color, that seeping grin, as paranoid about integration; but more to perfection, this northern gate, where mulattoes appear different; that thing of thoughts, to know both worlds, where a fellow chap condemns complexion. It mustn’t be real, as delivered in classes, this thing about black psychology; to listen to Akbar, favored by a professor, where it’s advised that one lives in abasements; but more to love, this woman of souls, as gracious as a southern star—to find for culture, this scented style, grooving to Stylistics. It was easy to see—this force of souls, gilted in a silken halo; where culture stood, appraised by men—this want to swim in deeper trenches; that ocean of waves, centered in mystic rooms, as gloomy as that last epiphany; but more to nuances, this thing of dissents, where a light bulb is wedged in an apple; to find for passion, this thing of hate, while attracted to a fraction of a person; as opposites wail, the tales of dreads, where treasures trickle into moments; as so is love—this friend of souls, as casual as a passing gaze; to pump our hearts, that feeling of sweat, toppling over into a vast thump; where it couldn’t be real, while it had to be real, as opposed to mere infatuation; but more to truths, this feeling unprovoked, merely captured in thoughts; those waves of souls, as secret locomotives, textured by a ghostly presence; to see it for powers, those eyes of souls, digging while reaching for gems; but more to race, this light of woes, vying for segregation; while praising variety, this drift of sights, at war with a private urge.