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.