I failed to see us, the value of personalities, skipping
through chi; that outer welcoming, but a moment and a wrist, but a kiss and a
sword. I failed our company, as two torn commands, this something less common
than jewels; to ponder that person, alive with sorrows, as dignified as ethos;
this wish of days, as wreaking havoc, upon something so gentle; as tugged at
war, these reasons for living, and yearning to be held; that culture of tears, to
feel accepted, while traipsing an edge; that deep deceit, as to break free with
lies, to come to terms with freedom. It was wrong to feel us—that gray nature,
where life was crumbling; so I called it hell, as to rupture nuance, where now
the muse muses. I saw abuse, and cursed a boon, with tendencies towards love; that
time for chaos, as wicked as prose, to enter this bath of woes; that nightly
cry, that mourning yawn—our faces scribbled upon psyches. Was it soon for
therapy—or psychotic features—this need to exist as grandeurs! I fatal that
cry, as born to see—this luxurious soul: bathing in passions, a kettle about a
storm, while whistling for nourishments. I saw for gates, that lavish name, one
confused about tensions: that patient trail; that electric volt; that need to
harness energy; while torn this art, about which to perish, to get so near to
something jaded. I thought it was us—feeling through crevices, while speaking I
trembled. It was power I said; and died we lived; that further into our
objectives. But life is gray—this reason for myths, this odyssey of voyages; as
too a heinous love, as to ruin a young soul—too old to long for interests: that
wealth of stars, jeweled in begets—so patient as to let go for decades. I feel
us churning—this course of wows, forever at peace with ridges: that turn of
sights; that insidious stare; as to hold for but a moment; while given to
sin—our calibers adjusted, as to reach the dregs; this cycle of tortures, as
yenning for our own, while one suffers at a swing; so no to love, that brief
event, while yes to love, that brief event; for life confuses, as to desire
passion, as two so torn by cultures.
I should have loved us, this casual feeling, misguided by
lust; but hell was moving, this torture of souls, while minds churned in
silence; this violent ache, those torn introjects, that feeling of inadequacy;
plus, the mazes, cut into harps, while love broke its voice. I tore a vessel,
believing in majesty, this thing of humans; to find it as fate, this desperate
time, as given to feel intensity; those inner shakes, that tremble from
nearness, that sly position; as using powers, while surfing illness, as to
become one afflicted. It couldn’t be real—this thing for love, while one is so
low; but more it lives, that shame of foes, as pulled as, Juliet; this dream of
souls, as if all is calm, while hell is reaching forward. I should have forsook
us—as to drag this brain—even into a place of peace; that gray island, the envy
of minds, while crawling into sinews; this place of hurt, the deepest of
dungeons, as to ask that one be taught about love. The days have fallen;
another has come; and never to understand the attraction of sorrows; so opposed
it must be—as lived in silence, where pain would soon ensue: that lock of
dreams; those broken shards; that ink of tears.
We feel amore, in a second’s desperation, wishing for a
life-vest; as to meet a vulture, while hoping for mercy, our cords dangling in
pits; to see for smiles, a lucky charm, only to soon flee; as time looses, this
static illusion, while one returns to their calibers; that haunt of love,
jilted by healing, as to finally break chains. We die to hear it—this thing of
truths, as wishing for permanence; where strong is law, that place of sages,
while many manipulate trust. It must be life—this ubiquitous thing, where one
clings for saviors; but long it lives, this brilliant love, as never to take
advantage; for pain is law, as to shatter delusions, where tomorrow is hatred;
this thing of fools, as drifting through portals, ashamed by current events.
