What nectar there is—to compassion’s faucet, as to receive
that thing given!—to harness passions, floating through time and space, adrift
this portal of lies. Our titles mourn us, while giving us life, a group of
mortal peers; charged by fiction, as crazed as Don Quixote, as longed for as
the Golden Age; to find this purpose, seasoned by offspring, enlightened by
woes: this crying passion; this poet’s pen; that gratification that wanes: come
night this jury, a gavel as justice, this subject as objective. We can’t escape
it, this mourning reflection, to find ourselves—an image through glass; that
vague appearance, this self of souls, catered to by egos; this velvet heart, in
love with ideals, if so be the legacy; as opposed to impish, coning for the
sake of cons, and baffled by disposition; as received by few, where others
shun—that fragrance of styles; but more to love—this child of times, a bit too
advanced; albeit, richly—this portal in time, alive through this vision of
passions: this crying weather, this tearful joy, situated at a turnpike. I
found us drifting, stationed in a maze, a thump as a reminder—of something
grand, such inner intelligence, this force directing chi; but what for cadence,
this rhythm of fuses, as stratified as mental pillars; to muse upon Life, as to
define the unspoken voice, travelling through dimensions. I found us at odds,
while perusing dislikes, to resist unto love; so much for caution, to learn it
through error—this faculty present at war; while it couldn’t be real, such
probing realities, to have enriched a segment of personalities: this starry
soul, this somber sanity, as something sacred and seasoned. Such is this force,
peering through clouded lenses, assuming identity through traumas; this
delicate linchpin, that inner wave-beat—honored by few; but how to escape, that
baggage of souls, that hydrant raging through thoughts?
