That Feeling

It thumped and leaped and flew into ignition; this tunnel of souls, at war by nature, attempting to outwit a flying missile. It greeted itself, this fuel of flames, as to flicker into a tornado. I’m at woes to fathom, to designate its source, while praying a particular soul. This underground life, as snug as seizing, while as careful as reason; to find us floating, that rapid enchant, as to pause for another thump. That’s two in session, as to intensify ignition, as a muse muses; this wit of outwitting, as false as clarity, to find but clumps of puzzles: that heated flush; that torrid thought; those moments running into crowds. I love us rising, this serious affect, as digging into psyches; that psych of hearts, that inner therapist, those years sitting in silence; as felt by monks, this chunk of self, while to love becomes a heart-fever; that thing of times, that pendulum of joys, as rounded as an insane glance. Our fire is churning, as lurking in crevices, wherewith, to peak at mirrors. I’ve fled the nights, as to arise through chi, a friend traveling through darkness; that raging shadow, that garden voice, those aching swords. We’ll never return, to that childhood glee, as siding with Hinayana. Ours are thunderbolts and lightning and sharp turns frantic with lies—to cover such terrain, trekking with violence, while nurtured by pegs of perception; to have that voice, shredded by reason, as if to live—a moment of clarity—and long this life, sheared with thumps, as radiant as sulfur; so more that passion, as to live this vest, a metaphor a symbol of hearts. It shouldn’t be us, drifting through waves, and terrified of closure; and it shouldn’t be us, racing from mirrors, while rushing to dungeons; but us we live, as grounded as insights, longing while crowded with love; that furious reason, that inner appointment, to feel that feeling.