I hear chatter, but so distant are lies, that creeping
insanity; to have this purpose, wrapped in falsehood, while expecting
longevity. This wave is tensed, bleeding for mercy—those days feuding with
lights. They ever burn, that glory for naught—and seemingly rambling; but I’ll
get there, seething with fury, where anger is exercised. I pardon this love, as
afraid to find it, where parents would cringe—that living ghost, as to
intercede, grieving that night-scare. Sights are heavy, while woe is
resting—awaiting something mental; that wrestled thought, those gorgeous
eyes—that contour of fevers; as to alter reality, this illusion within a dream,
as to find reality. It’s so surreal, this jazzy feeling, this sorrow seeping
into prose; that faraway garden, filtered in purple roses, while I tread this
bark of yesteryears; those hewn corners, as crying in private, while awake to
sheer insanity. We flee to see it, this monster of tales, as it lurks in
realities; that failed approach, spewing nonsense, while expecting longevity.
The darkness of life—while buried in passions, to see one as
misappropriating—this furious feeling, as chided in mirrors, where sincerity is overdue; that tale of woes, to hear as it chatters, this non-vocal entity. I’m
coming to senses, engraved with frictions, and flattered by a subtle gesture;
while nurses mourn, fraught with this feeling, but to witness a miracle; this
place of love, where hell is near, as we war off its tentacles; but why for
such thoughts, as to garner such empathy, to believe he suffers with friends;
that nonchalance, as to see her angry, as to realize: she’s always angry! I
soon return, fleeing from islands, peering into something fictional; this torn
essence, this contradiction, as chattering with feelings; those gray enchants,
those beige deserts, that color we can’t see. They call it life—this
in-between, peering into sober eyes; that second about wisdom, that claw
pulling, while reality bends reality.
