Temptation

I’m lost to fantasy, at war with dialogues—our faces cringing with truths; as blades trickle, our blood and salt, at heaven’s nursery—our hearts; while confused our minds, at peace with panic, pressured into liaisons; this dream of fools, cultured upon chaos, to long for this never-would; that place of pain, this inner discharge, praising this love for God; while hell freezes, and tales puncture—this place of woes. I love us more, ten miles to hell, as maintaining such distance. I hate us more, while chained to essence, this thump longing for tensions; that strong contention, as argued to love, so close to a cave of shames. It couldn’t be real—whereas, it had to be real—this winter storm; where hearts shattered, as filled with disdain, while years morphed into attraction; that thing about words, that literature about fools, that time to reflect—therewith, this scar, bandaged through faith, to peer at eyes filled with praise. I feel us more, this sickness of souls, while we bat at nevermore; this hostile chase, as to sleep with peace, while dreams flicker into madness. I heard a name, sitting in vacancy, as empty as deceitful koans. It mustn’t be us—that second of pleasure, while running to this secure space: longing for turmoil, as meant for living, this sickness gripping gravel; to have dimensions, as filled with terror, that instance as explosions of pains.  I soon drift—as to ponder a friend—a city of platonic years; where arts invaded, and prose skated, filled with an interior amore; that thing of force, pushing at dialogues, to which, friends fall softly; but this is life, to which we subject—a fist full of fires; as truth would live—it becomes a norm, to exist a flaming furnace: to graduate lies, and mobile this chance—where friends part a rustic dance: our enchanted souls, pinning through fevers, at tenses with fluctuations; that voice of dreams, to meet by fate, as running towards our safety zones.