She’s mastered arts—this shredded voice, adoring that fated
moment; where souls skyrocket, that second for farewells, asleep in passion’s
bosom. Such renaissance eyes—impassioned with rain—our rented wisdom; while
merely a seashell, stranded upon an island shore, infuriated with love; as
thirsting for poison, this inverted knowledge, as segue abstractions; as dreamt
her soul—this tainted man, far beneath her grade; while rustled in stature,
clawing clumps of grass, to have but a moment of that love; while long it
lives, this itch for tears, this uprising downfall: aglow as hidden, in
richness this dream, feigning as flint-hearted; to seek this face, this
highbred muse, or more this perplexing low-base. Such nightcap dreams—featured
in cagey eyes, clawing at sky-hearted souls; this ancient attraction, to find
us this life, as powerful as our yearnings.
I shift.
I try to forfeit mind, this endless staircase, leading to
this spaceless smile; this poetic spin, grinning as to feign joy, while joyous
to cascade: this infant ache, as an adult burning—with trauma’s sensations. I
saw light, this cloud of lightning, this deep contrast. It was more our minds,
mingling through chi, this inner concrete; as best known as mystic, this future
we must love, while traits appear, as to confront mirrors, as two masterful
souls. Our times are bleeding, that moment of silence, found in a sullen
solace; where séance eyes, sing of glory—the woes of a moralist; indeed, to
weep, or more to reflect, on such crucial injunctions. It’s not enough, as to
thirst prose, this rotten, albeit, raw emotion. It’s never enough, to feel this
heart, where minds roam that vastest sphere; but woebegone, if ever to lose
heart, while screaming at melting walls.
