I love us
dying, this mental chase, at treasure with tears his soul; to tend towards
death, albeit, torn with life, this radiant monster. I thought her inhuman, so
intense this error, as falling but a dungeon; to kill this grave, bones to
soil, as reaching her mindstate. We live it in panic, at tears this soul,
scraping an endless prison; at war this heart, starting at her mind, crying
into the darkness. I love us living, screaming into mines, as detonated on
impact; this deep Shakur, this radiant scar, that close to terror. I feel it
more, the spy of his soul, this woman peering into silence; that concentration,
that daughter’s heart, even a mother’s rage; to die this earth, shaking this
voiceprint, crawling the railroad tracks. It couldn’t be—this thing it is,
soaking into misery. I love us flying, this campfire attraction, mourning in
this forest; as cringing this goodbye, while another lives, as becoming his
muse; this faint future, this deep deceit, this risk that tortures truth. I
found us fleeing—into some type of passion, to look back and smile at
chocolate. It’s grave this night, a slave of prose, traipsing towards this game
of tug-a-war. Tell me fiction; distress his mind; but love me come broken
cities. The art is death; the past is pagan; our tears are shattered in gold;
this pity of fools, crossed at lakes, to enter while feeling a stranger. Let us
remember, those tender lights, while garnered by extractions. Let us
perish—this value of nights, while plunging into madness; for this is
breathing, caged in cartels, searching for clearance; that major ark, as
sailing with larks, a mate for every treasure; where girth is love, this inner
Bathsheba, a bit too eager to bathe; where crawled the hearts, at tour with
pash, as clear as torments; to achieve his goal, that deeper this woman, while
crossing terror-domes.
