It takes
days to recoup, while to find a piece of that vague self: the roses are
different, and pash is wicked, and theology is vivid. We live congested,
feuding with domains, such are call centers about knowledge; as framed in
treasures—this scared soul, afraid to forfeit salvation; this thought of error,
depending on perspective, as to frighten into submission. I would’ve held
us—aside for this funny bone, trickling into our nightmares: that petal of
wisdom, or philosophical thought, as addressing wounded egos; while such an
ass, this torn folly, an embarrassment to life; where souls vanish, while
perfect languishes, where a dream is heavily promiscuous. I couldn’t find us,
stuck on media events, or silent with irritations; for we perish for stage
life, as to create a monster, where others are balanced; and what to give, for
a somber soul, dedicated to our lives; this wife of pains, to forsake the ruse,
as brave enough to pursue love; while we dance to cadence, this want for more,
occupied with daily habits; this joyous affair, this wounded light, as given
this flux; to see for rivers, that inner flow, to capture something perfect: a
rooted image, a spiritual nature, or a particular specialty. We emphasize love,
while giving to receive—our enchanted souls: as bleeding ink, or cutting
ribbons, a signpost for every level; else, concerned, waking through traumas,
alive a moment through turmoil; but more to love, this great event, where
rapture is a phone call away: that precious soul, those graded moments, where
nothing quite compares; but the challenge is human—this need for regeneration,
where souls become insatiable; as beauty in a jar, or beauty too afar, where
our chase becomes our life; but more to love—this fabulous soul, as magnified
in our hearts: that gripping thump, that deep infusion, those candles burning
forever; where love is passion, as passion is life, as love is our offspring.
