Listen Love

I gave us diamonds, this present essence, spinning through portals: I gave us life, this visiting soul, as something reflective; to speed through lightning, to morph as thunder, this soaring wind; to fly as eagles, to phoenix this life, indebted to genealogies; that inner presence, this ghostly texture, at war with love: that reaching greatness, a maestro as swan, taking for giving this excitement. It lives, my Love: this force of souls, where I know your name; this pigeon as  dragon, this griffin as sign, this crow following from dungeon to cities. We live it grayly, at truths for wars, as to challenge irrationality: this wild belief; that partial evidence; this reason to retreat; but life is essence, this type of substance, where many graduate the esoteric. I thought to give more, where fate was altered, while a computer went haywire; for something moves, traveling from land to seas—this month an omen of secrets: that borne chase; those gleaming eyes; this shaking through souls: that inner earthquake; that facial presence; those chills at conscious this light; to know inheritance, this merchant of souls, traveling through this matrix. We keep it quiet, to know this love, as reaching for this swanic heart: that cultic storm, this mystic fan, tiptoeing leaves; as something grand, this lot of Elijah, a prophet with honor. I love you more, this rare admission, but always this floating presence; to send us art, this spark of souls, at nuance this spike of prose; to call your name, as to say it clearly, this riddle at times a merchant; so see with souls, this fiery furnace, at times a bit too icy; indeed, a riddle, but twice a sight, as to focus on this thing. We gave us life, an aunty as seer, a family as holy; to spin through life, at needs to express—this inner wave. I’ll send a prayer, as hearts thump—this inner recognition; as floating through time, this space of swans, at love for your soul.

We’re going to an inner space.

Rainbow Rain & Rails

We dwelt a storm, this furious scream, as contending contentions. Our moments crossed, those seconds of clarity, where points were reckoned; to see this goddess, at war with hats, while driven this bee hive; this far—my Love, broken in shards, where pieces sing of glory: that infamous tear, as barred this dance—peering at rubric eyes. It shouldn’t be real, this brilliant science, at odds with vocal awareness; but this is life, as conditioned this walk, a group of thoughts—embedded wings.  I cried your heart, to sentence this anger, while love trickled ajar; as bedded within, while seeping forward, this tale of mystics; to love you more, this torn affect, where moments scream of passions; that inner friction, this pick for souls, as pricking where minds grow stubborn. We awaken contempt, as familiarity, to ponder, “He couldn’t remember”; this false impression, to tinkle with nonsense, at once, a terror this mirror; where arts perish, as feuds emerge, where no one is playing therapist. This shouldn’t be life, a child as kingdom—our hearts as dearly suspicious—as casted for such, to wonder of knowingness, where voices seem evasive. I died this light, wrapped in tears, to know us as adversaries; this false infusion, where ours are sensitive, an ink-jar as eczema—this torrid scratch, while blood trickles—our flesh embedded with scars; to see this angst, as breaking through arts—this immortal charm; for this is true—this polarity light, to seem as bad until voice is spoken. It shouldn’t be love, as countryside fire, where silence is deemed as appropriate; for it must be feelings, this nameless soul, seeking while searching for clearance; this thing of wars, as featured in eyes, where to impress is mere delusion; so more to truths, this way of souls, as drifting into this place of confusions; as found in lives, as torn through souls, this inner wedge.  I want to live, this vest of stars, featured as inner voices; to dance afar, as gaining entrance, this vessel of hidden pains; but love is stealth, adrift that tune, while pushing through extensive traffic; where this is life, a friend as refuge, captured as an unlikely soul; to fall as broken, these parts to adventure, at odds with probing feelings.      

Airborne

We awaken realities, where hell courts services, while love distorts images: this torn affection; that slight imbalance; this thing of souls; while life is colors, this bleeding plant, at times, a gift to seethe. Its ambivalent lights, and skyward souls, this dungeon broken in slices; to fall my life, as restored this heart, structured through anger this vague attraction. It couldn’t be venom, this correlation, with ease this tension of diamonds; while purposed for aches, this inner contrast, as to receive a day’s wages. We storm the gaps, strewing seeds, where weeds throttle for chase: this electric tale; that outgoing package; this thing we can’t resist; as challenged to live, this measure of lies, studied as vessels of tours; guiding through lights, this external pace, a reflection of mother’s mirror. It comes to breathe, as paired with souls, filtered through stations: that legend of tears; that inner sacrifice; that game through minds; as ever to wonder, of something vague, with little or no evidence: this fractured wave; this inner aftermath; those tides rushing through psyches; where patience lingers, as thrust through guillotines—this measure hard to discern: this higher function, as seeping deeply—as ever this voyage. It shouldn’t be art, as to ruin arts, this fraction of art’s madness; to flee by nature, as returning a favor, guilt into sadness; this pure blackmail, where palms are filthy, as destined to repeat this nightmare. It couldn’t be life, as upward this tear—while treasured this welkin prayer; but ours is royal, where vagueness dwells, this contempt for resistance; or ours is poverty, this overt arm, plaguing our interactions; where days are spirit, or nights are volts, as one stumbles through mire; that wail of songs, gathered at graves, reciting something internal; this rich existence, that moment with flowers, as plucking a purple petal; to feel it rising, as calling for judgment, where mirrors are ignored. It had to be us, this feud of souls, where one appears as innocent: this thing of woes; this stress of souls; those hours pacing the vaguest dreams; as deep in essence, filled with anger, born to something mystic.          

Heaviness

I’m slanted this second, this vision of souls, as to meet your mind; this furious form, fermented in traumas, that mental secret; to keep us banished, as christic whistles, confined to cages. I love us thinking, enmeshed in tears, as terror to souls; where love is life, this infamous channel, stressed through trials. I wrote a poem, embedded with fevers, and launched it at rivers; this frantic passion, a bottle to waves, hoping on something precious: this absent knowledge; or more this present knowledge; as this thing courting torments. I loved at first glance, to see a crooked face, while photographs induced consciousness; this war of songs, echoing silence, while forging images. It took effect—this infant grin, where gates opened freely. I know a secret, this mind as terror, this enemy within; as too for us, this plague of fortunes, this yearn for destruction. It shouldn’t be real—this attic rain, purposed for failure; but this is law—this inner web, as searching for infractions; so more to caution, this inner as outer tags—this something thumping into chaos—our wearied souls, as plunged into mire, where hell taunts resilience. We know for panic, as to unbar demons—this furious faculty; where this is life, that war of mirrors, where sipping becomes fundamental: that place of fears, while love has grayed—this hoary atmosphere. It calls for patience, that stature of feelings, as perfecting this longing music. I feel at silence, sitting for several years, as to have revealed nothing: that lie of endings; that terrible nuance; those times crying to mirrors; as born to live, where tides are battles, this fever for ghosts and phantoms; that apparition, serving for death, this slanted perspective. It couldn’t be life—as dying in fragments, this purpose for living; as deep affliction, this sad thetic, infused with lowliness. We broke ranks, this mystic charm, as something a bit too complicated; so more to silence, this tacit retreat, staring at ignorance; to haunt this rule, as mimicking gladness, while harboring deep contempt. We must advance, as to set a boundary—that more involved in lies; else, to perish, this plight of Paul, stationed at a neighbor’s guillotine.    

Inner

It’s more than sexy, while more than love—this thing as potential; where life changes, to see events, this inner advent: our minds as wombs; our women as doves; this thing about children; to flee, fly and frantic, this board of mathematics—this drift through infinity.  (I died your name, as pushing for fortune, this thing you resisted; for I never came, and never would, this awkward situation; to ponder fiction, this inner graph, those chills seeping through art).  I love a swan, as plaintiff a cygnet, this world of green eyes; or maybe hazel, this outer coffee, fleeing as to fly this fortune.  (Ours—immortal, this tide of years, our days fraught with pavement; to trek marsh, this sludge of brains, drifting through inner dregs; to push like falcons, at war with squirrels, this thing our lions watch).  I must confess, this inner feeling, as to use words for much. I’m want for verbs, this telic chapter, while drifting through cosmology: this sore divine, as purchased by prayer, as to become this vessel: our inner mirror, that faint lagoon—that ghost come enlightened souls; this favor of woes, as spiked to advance, this daughter experiencing the esoteric.  (I love us more, at tears to defend, this sort of mystic madness; where hell is virtue, as heaven is favor, this flavor surging through fools; to live as pagans, feelings felt through fevers, this thing our souls have mastered. It takes for courage, this infant glare, to reach for father’s mustache).  I must retreat, as wrecked and broken, this task made difficult—for love is purposed, to see you fly, at odds with mother’s strategy.  (Our season was then; our virtue is now—forever at this crossroad).  I saw a vision, this tiny spark, as more explosive than engines; to court a fancy, or lie a dove, this passion as close as bones; to manage culture, this thing of styles, as one worthy of love.  (I fret and panic, fettled by life, praying this fairy of dreams; this fantastic soul, at want for rightness, while surging through inner conflicts; this place of pains, while time is moving, to feel this self as stagnate).  I came to conquer, this hellbound offense, at once this attraction; this marvelous whistle, cranked to perfection, as to wrestle through heated abandonment; but ours is sights, flowing through nouns, at once, a carrier of inflations.    

Dynamic Shifts II

I feel a cygnet, this powerful soul, as distorting faces: I see a psych, as planting features, as crazed as wolves; this inner panic, as for being seen, as to share with selected groups; this terror of souls, that inner personality—this fearless secret; as more paradox, this cygnet as foe, this cygnet as friend; this baffled lot, a kite beneath tables, a memoir screaming for affection; that grueling year, pouring forth woes, as to receive but fractions; this worth of souls, while chimes sing—that pigeon on his porch. I felt a thump, as to disrupt a sentence, this wailing taboo; where something cries, in sheer contempt—of something with nuance. We danced a spell, parted by lies, while parted by truths; this inner paradox, as vague as thoughts, in order to discern locations. It shouldn’t be real, this place of souls, as burning with presence: this soon to die, despite those years, a man to his visions; this craving sanity, as blank with mania, this trip to see our love: those scudding sentiments; that cygnet as motivation; this swan as lifeforce: as moving gravel; as channeling gavels—this soul unraveled; to peer at deaths, this cliff of woes, while mangled in parts. I loved a myth, this art’s illusion—performing close to awareness; this thing of fools, as drifting through faiths, as one entertained by reflection. I know our thoughts, this thing of humans, to long eternal our gifts: to see ourselves; this second of pleasures; this course coursing through sentiments; as born backwards, this search for forwardness, as something obscure by nature; this feral scar, this obsequious moment, as to walk away in shambles; indeed, we could, this thing of placation, but what for inner peace; this space of tears, that deep enchant, as cycling through meadows. Ours is warm, eluding interactions, at pace to rule our feelings; where it couldn’t be true, this wealth of fury, our furnace upon a canyon; to see this center, as misdirected, where this person becomes a misfit: this thing for artists, or even musicians, at war with a fleet of persons; to fit forever, as leaning crooked, this unfitted thing.    

Dynamic Shifts

We say love too much; this infamous style, as grave determinations—to sight an owl, this need to converse, rising at midnight; to catch a whiff—of alternate wisdom, albeit, to live in grayness. Our formulas change, dependent on souls, while sorting through variables; where trite is trite, to maintain patience, at hopes for a broken impasse: this inner island, growing through seas, as to reach inner shores: this love for love, as steering through pressures, at war with edginess. It was never a game, but more a game, as to test one’s wits. I uttered pain, condemned for pain, as one unaware. It has it measures, as frustrating dearly—this soul of values. It must feel good, to scramble brains, while to feign as human at home: this vague assault, to rattle chains, where both disdain tactics. It’s more authentic, if but that moment, to reflect and see more games; as love is strong, a misprint of words, flowing through a printing press; this place of minds, at pure imagery, accustomed to misprints. I see us angry—this thing about purpose—the soul of psychiatry; as to seek advice, this uneven tone, while to kick one that dwells in mire; but soon to freedom, fleeing partiality, where acquiescence serves as deference. I can’t but dance, albeit, with cadence, this imperceptible advent—as long it lives, this corner in basements, where to peek is to become stung. This is given, as enemy to friend, this thing courted by spirits; as partial to kindness, this gray matter, where reception comes with fawning; but still for hells, as one plainly a victim, as this rant surfaces clearly. I found peace with mourning, as to look at parallels, this quiet thing that irks our mirrors; where therapy is their comfort, as one obsequious, nodding in vague agreements. I have no war, moreover, a temperament, that appears a hassle to souls; but more to aiding, those longing souls, where total abandonment is required: to see success; this thing of virtue; while feeling a sense of humanity; so long it lives, this thing that aids, where I find fault with procedures: this place of fools, this inner contention; as needing more this human.          

At that Instant

I wanted anger, traipsing a turnpike, feeling a bit stagnate; for styles are waning, as to outgrow patience, while one is holding on: this feral root; this type of levity; where tension speaks to answers. I admire logistics, to soar freely, this art of bathing majesty; as some inner kernel, splayed in parts, provoked by objectivity. It becomes a bore, this thing of strife, as to earn a sense of ignorance; where life is vague, this fraught amore, stationed in envies. I’ve seasoned self, that outward frustration—this thing of escapes; to fluster souls, this hive of dreams, perfected through solitude. We treasure fawning, to eschew the strong, while to assault such souls: Its sheer nature, this inner habit, plus, this need for acceptance; where evenness is error—this want to dominate, as opposed to harmonize; unless for reason, that feature to praise, to cause inner disdain; and then for millions, as one for slaves, this chamber of fools. I trek clouds, soaring through mind-caves, invested in mantras; to see that image—appear in shadows, while sudden a thump; to alter this course, as visions transform—this welkin activity. I sighted a bird’s song, this soothing echo, this rhythmic cadence; to chance this life, this need to trust, peering at gray matter. Our voice to winds, broken as forever, to return such hostility: this fretful night; those silent glares; while seeking this engine. Ours is shattered—this vast disjunction, as to reason but once a mile; this deep ambivalence, that need for mimicry, or this thing of acceptance. It shouldn’t be real, this hassle with life, as to encounter a superior insecurity: this outward loft, as reeking of anger, while kindness is perceived as acquiescing. I must flee, this dangerous perception, for it leads to expectations: that grand approval; that torn disappointment; that return to ground zero; but this is light—as choking on intentions, where it was never mutual; so more to that challenge, that grave suggestion—that humans befriend humans—or more souls, as deep with sadness, breaking free.    

They Find Us Falling

I’m naïve a bit too much, where grounds break, as essence falls—to enliven souls, spewing through venom, something akin to peace; this fraction of us, sorting through mind-waves, at caves a mile to hearts; while gray our lights, this fusion within, torn through drapes that face; whereto, this harp, or more this organ, traipsing mystic dungeons. I flew at will, this deep confusion, pushed by extraterrestrials: that shove through grime, that tight fitting mystique—this thing as partial as love; to find this face, but a shoulder to souls—this space filled with chaos; as born with fey, this mystic child, sorting through artifacts. I was with need—that place of ventures, to speak this apology; but time broke ranks, traversing islands, where our souls conjured nuances; where love shivered, as intruding lands—this precious squirrel—as given signs, zipping through trees, harassing patience. I loved us, this internal clock, before hell drenched lagoons; to sing of pressures, this infernal fire—our inner kilns. It shouldn’t be broken, this thing that is, seeping through golden brooks; to pass with angst, this cave of ripples—our magnets attracting sorrows. I pause through gestures, staring at pain, this woman feeling at ease; to trespass souls, or to hold a grimace, while one is speaking of pain; or more another, to chide through redness, a bit angered by a statement; but this is life, this grand appeal, where feuds are inevitable. We dance immortal—our words as chancellors—they dangle above souls; to haunt with fierceness, this partial affect, as it lingers through essence; that first impression, as dated in time, this woman to believe he doesn’t see;—now whose naïve, as living with answers, ashamed that the world is suffering. It had to be life, as careful to see—this wealth of motives; but where was love, when hell was infused, as abusing this terminal? I ask with haste, floored in turmoil, but a man as spirit—driven towards affections, pierced by anxiety, in-love with patience; this sore contradiction, as spirit speaks, while to elude a present vessel; this thing for worries, as controlled partially, spaced through various dimensions.  

There Should Have Felt Pride this Day

Mother’s piano—this
psych of terrors, abandoned to
injustice; that inner husband,
beating for submission—this psych
of woes; to relive death, this torn
endeavor, fretful about her daughter;
this day of tension, a bit robotic, to
garner symphony from no-man. I’m caged
with fire, this breath of horrors, a bit so
tipsy; as wheat to liquor, this massive
adventure, to tell her everything that time;
while broken alive, our parts glued to ice
—this melting storm. We loved as fools, this coursed
display, while to sing a crooked love. I found a
rose, as distorted as mother—this birth of a swan: I
found a cygnet—even mother’s features, as to loathe
my soul: I found a psych, either high for low—this
violin of ghosts. It couldn’t be real, frantic through
cyan eyes, this fuchsia feng shui;
as cartoon treasures—this pout a last goodbye, as
mourning mother’s dreams; for hell tells truths, that
vision we sought, as to mimic this gimmick of affairs.
I knew a queen, this stranded addiction, at peace with
journeys; to flavor this life, a son as a vessel, a daughter
as a casualty; to live such rain, this drain of souls,
flickering in an office; as one polarized, this temple
to see, but a number to a psych. It becomes life,
sipping as pastime, ever at ends to perish; this fervent
chase, racing with tears, alert to something frantic.
Mother pleaded—as this world grew deaf, a psych to
doubt sobriety
—as a fool called, begging for mercy,
at hearts to stipple this case.
It’s more for status, as admitting folly, this one
redeeming nothing: It’s more at play, this wheel
of parrots, at stature that broken chair.
I love us teething, as babes through woods,
blessed to audit life in a second;
to crash upon silver, abed this chariot, puffing
through tokens of sex;
—this marvelous feature—that sly remark, that thought
to feel such justice.                

We Become Human

We consider facts, these proofs we touch, even particles of mind-waves; where illusions perish, if so be this love, this essence cleaving to reality; but drift afar, this fantastic mind, seeping into vague gestures; as more a journey, this core entertainment, a bit too cruel for axis. It shouldn’t be life, this act for fools, while uttering a silent contract: that inner passion, clashing as to rise, ignoring something precious; to fall forever, this needed union, as judged through cautious antics. We see patterns, this analytical intrusion, as both pleasure and burden; to live as we dwell, confused at parts, a fan generating warm winds; where either love or darkness, this darkness of love, permeates personas. I ramble surely, unless to peer closely—a scholar and her pen; this partial thing, while to notice nuance—this beautiful catastrophe: when pulled by purities; or hassled by negligence; this realization. We’re dealing with humans, with deep emotions, a bit too personal for souls. (I’ve tapped upon something: I’ll try to explain). Some are geared for love; that profound intimacy; where words produce orgasms. I wandered by mistake, to this place of virtue, a bit too intimidated; this challenge of souls, to enter into contracts, prepared to die with love: where sex is secondary; albeit, primary; an extension of such intimacy: to know this person; or to feel this person; where two manage as lights; this dark sickness, painted as glorious, as to encounter every gesture. It can’t be exhausted—that need for friendship—something a bit deeper than reflection: where pixels forge pictures; or pictures forge reality; this thing slanting with love; while love reaches, beyond mere glances—the two as one with child; or less a song, but more this music, as an orchestra of symbols. We can’t intrude; it’s not a living option; or less a proposition; whereto, is silence, this inner craving, to sing with bluebirds such magic.  I sighted love, hiking through transmitters, buried in mysticism; as speaking in tongues, some partial language, this piecemeal agenda; as ravished by souls, to see why love lives, hoping their diamonds are outcomes: this vague enchant; where defenses are high; while indeed we court this magic; that faraway dream, while silenced through arts, as seeking something immortal. We’re partly human, addressed as mere mortals—where violins stress such divinity; to awaken essence, this esoteric rhythm, where ethereal love is present. I admire passion, speaking as bypasser, a man too involved with traumas; as seeing chimes, courting winds, our immortal glance.      

Fire Hearts, as Welkin Souls

What was purpose, this complicated soul, ferrying through caves—our minds, those tears to gravel, that acidic flower? We coupled a nice dream, like fame to souls, perusing-reaching eyes; as devastating answers, that thing we must live, gripping and tossing panic; as touching bee hives, or cupping sulfur—this terrible passion. It wasn’t real, while through sands, as teal as turquoise skies; to fret a poodle, as she watches rain, spinning in circles her tail.

I saw us in visions, communing in silence, our hearts an ancient furnace; this orange sensation, sewing grayness, this feeling eluding falsification. There’s beige essence, this admiration, so distant from itself; to flee a thought, this merging traffic—lost, as cruising an intricate ramp; to see an image, our lagoon’s reflection, pitching powerful vibrations.

There’s love to us, this troubled passion, souls filled with armoires; as changing clothes, to find a feeling, our scalps mystic with oils; as living affected, our palates confused, severed by something precious. We must kindle fire, a group of scouts, at mastery this forest: We must run to self, that slain encounter, while converted to sing; this passionate light, this intimate song, this something we shouldn’t touch.

I’m slanted for arts, this aesthetic love, sipping glasses of ether; to see this face, a phantom afar, where to chase is pure affection; that tale of souls—that terrible beauty, as something detached from its essence. I watched images, scratching while frantic, pulling at butterflies; to see for firebugs, this terror for lusting eyes, at woes abed this fantasy.

We came to life, embedded in shells, while crawling seashores; as perfect creations, this welkin charm, to stand atop this bulwark; this sheer effusion, huffing and puffing, infused with substance; this place at love, this fantastic voyage, feelings with such peace; to burden pain, with something incredible, our souls sitting in illusions; this space of therapy, if pursued with cadence, those truths as demarcations; this wheezing attraction, this flame about wounds, painted by something mental. It couldn’t be real, this serf of love, pruning gardenias: that centered resistance, as channeled through winds, this place of fires within; as cornered by self, this taste of truths—our existential meadows.  

Something Mystic Took Place

We fuse in heartbeats, fettled by lightning, this flickering sanity; while to artifact life, holding to precious topaz, befuddled by kindness: this world at pressures; this rain with pleasures; or more our mirrors seeking Father. We find at substance, ready for identity, analyzing textures; as filled with ether, this glorious soul, too young to calculate infusion: this dream we had; that night of flames; those seconds flushed with fever; as seeking images—our souls inverted, reaching for trinkets. We measure passion, dependent on status, where love throttles buttons; as ever this intake, sullen with purpose, our rainbows chasing unicorns. We fly with death, those infant degrees—a second for a butterfly this pain; as casual sin, this deep retreat, indulging in something harmful; this pony affair, as glamorous quartz, fishing where persons fell in; this tear searing steel, those long years of dripping—empowered by this sudden rescue; as floating this life, an earthquake as a greeting, this woman flickering through passions. There’s flavored water, these souls as kilns, this cosmic furnace; to love a swan, at art a symbol, while daughters reach for mother’s ears; to hear such silence, as warm with wisdom, this place a thousand doves; to move with turtles, as to morph with hawks, to find a mountain of centaurs—this life of souls, burning through mystics—this yogic departure—as found this rift, as severing silence—our mirrors but an extension of our fires. It had to be lights, seated in forever, longing for never-our-distance; to see this leaf, flickering in autumn, as thunder pressured auburn images; this want for mercy, this need to exist—that too close affliction; to picture a sign, this symbol upon skies, while falling into oxygen. Our souls ignite,—engines through galaxies,—fueled by a perfect vision—this gallery of minds, our chimes to winds, this valley of valleys our love; to drift with purpose, as sculpting an image, sleeping as to fly eternal; this thing of hearts, this flicker of actions, as determined through this restless breath; to know this name, a flicker but a star, at tears with ecstasy: this major contention; our proofs of existence; a bit too precious for microscopes.          

Hey Love II

I felt your mind, this powerful arc, this sea of rivers. I heard your soul, through pitted skies, at woes over essence; this torn riddle, as beauty afar, guarded as too many roses; to taste earth, this blueberry thought, seasoned with paltry. I sing a song, to ballet a swan, this fury transformed—into deep this desert, our clam oasis, flitting as to fly forever; this height of souls, a diamond to mother, a gem to father; as born too soon, as living too early, this cabin of bears. I saw a heart, beating in midair, clawing at eternity: I saw a face, filled with sable eyes, too close to touch. I ran forever, at guilt this mind, to circle a churchyard. I felt your mind, screaming for clarity, to stumble upon satori, or more dakini, surfing through maya, as to become a bodhi; where love is guidance, to aid a colony, as to watch their graduation; while building affections, to travel through seas, this essence captured in stillness; to know for strengths, or even love, this feeling of swans. I heard your soul, singing of freedom, while courting legends; as to reappear, this vessel of storms, reaching as to conquer those clouds; to adjust life, this sibling as friend, striving as to forge dreams: our courted fancies; our inner visions; those purities we utter rarely. I waxed with rain, digging deep this soil, as to plant a prayer: it came to life, this swan of prose, exposed to such feelings; to have this dance, such welkin eyes, seasoned, baked, and hearted to perfection. I love your song, seeping into music, a sign for a soul stressing; this world of stars, and casual scars, carried a bit too far. I felt your soul, pulling as to awaken—this man falling asleep; that inner grace, that outer mystic—this travel through deep terrain; where love is motion, while love is gray, where we must create color; this thing of thoughts, sorting through meadows, as to discover our hidden treasure. I felt a mind, moving through forests, at peace with souls.         

Love Should Be Ideal

I gallop dreams, peering at séance eyes—this renaissance love; as falling at fey, to ever return, a bouquet for our woes; this inner fire, our iron grays, this interrogation; to mumble truths, in-love forever, playing charades. Our hearts alive, as choosing to live, this feeling of cascades; to enter blindly, as evading lies, engaged in tears. Our mermaids laughing; our sons as rebels; our days a fury of dreams; this miracle of times, avoiding poison trees, deep at this argument; indeed, for visions, to live out passion, a bit twisted with humans; to want for mercy, as given such love, to remember our names fall apart. Its effort for souls, this poignant romance, to know that we can: as loving through weather, our evermore, our souls flint—this furious focus, to adore this life, at woes to harm us; indeed, this love, cultured by graces, to outlive this calling death: as counting seashells; or asleep to pain; those eyes this ascending song; to break with caution, as visions awaken, our pearl this fiery skyrocket; indeed, I dream, to want for everything, a faultless baguette: tainted by magic; believing beyond facts; if merely to faint at such words; this thing for hopes, the surety of mortals, at trance to fall such doubts. I fade to thoughts, as dreamt existence, a sage but a song for sorcery; to chance this art, this hymn of roses, that flawless aria—to shift through summers, or cuddle through winters, this thing through life as mental.  I envision this dance, as a foreign soul, seeking this world: draped in fusions; a man of doubts; too involved to perish love: this inner art; this lively minx; our moments wanting forever; to sing of love, as to capture concrete, floating through abstract allusions. This pearl of times, this segue to arts, this harp flaming with spirits; to chance this life, our souls at moons, to have but one sun—to argue fate, this famous enchantment, our brains to storm.  I hope for much, alive as human, seeking out that higher self; to stipple a fortress, this electric charge, at peace with presence; indeed, this life, with much to give, our souls soaring through music; as face to face, our naked lights, given more than necessary; for this is love, this grand infusion, to pass through impatient times.  

At Moments Life is Uneasy

I never saw us, at some verdant park, seesawing with laughter. I saw chaos, this wealth of insecurities, manifested in promiscuity. We lost integrity, and flourished in omission, a pair of scarred doves. It becomes life, a series of souls, with aches through grains; this harvest of turmoil, this shadow about joys, those boundaries to feel significant; where a stranger comes, as treated to royalties, while a baby’s father is greeted with disdain. We merely watch, as to utter silence, while determining worth: this gray infusion; a slice of orange in gin; this sweet tasting cigar. I rue us not, as lying for peace, a host of issues to address; this therapeutic—this casual sin—this person we need to trust; but ours is panic, this thing about humans, this terror about mirrors; to shift through waves, a nun to a priest, at war through our images. I’ve come to terms, with something chaotic, as to paint my life in tragedies; this thing with souls, as to conquer a slither, about this art of joys; as pictured at moments—this daughter as an eagle, that queen as a falcon, our mothers as voices; this wrest of words, those inner portraits, our brains as partial friends. I speak of secrets—this crowded room of loneness, where feng shui is but a patch, about this horror, our need to feel needed—this wealth slipping through crevices; as lighting this furnace—becomes this sewn way of life—this something about humans. I never saw us, at some type of war, this want for graces we couldn’t give; to see at peace, this long sought journey, while some find comfort;—in all that we suffer, this moment of security, as feeling through territories. I could but smile, for love was inverted, where hatred became so warm; this thing it was, for this thing that is, as this art becomes confusion. We need outlets, someone to speak to, as to free our minds of guilt; that inner parade, fueled by trance, that second about too many pains; to blend at best, this never-could-be, while frantic over stature. I should say love, especially, for status, but this is sheer deception; for hell invaded, as to cut spirits, where one was cleaving to vests; that vulture of styles, those waves of lust, that route to rejuvenation; through broken arms, as to accuse love, of leading us into travesties. I knew not this wind, as burdened with courage, too ashamed to admit love had perished; as given this Ghost, so young this heart, too bold to walk away; but it lives, this ache through visions, to see us fraught with disgust; while they watch, as learning this behavior, as to repeat our examples. I never saw us, as loving forever, where others would be forsook. I saw us living multiple lives, while dinner simmers, and children speak of sciences. I saw us proud of courage, stressed about love, going through various segments; as to forsake selfishness, that month of devotion, that second we loved again.   

Fireside Candles

I woo this feeling, sitting in stillness, planted in concentration: you electric life, these two to blend, that deep resonance: us as one, a nation of mystics, as not to utter this word; this dance with chi, that fever of souls, as to meet with fire. We move grayness, as to enrich this feeling, a city thriving through cravings: this intimate touch, infused with kindness, this fortune of love. We sought for tapestries, pulling at curtains, as to unveil mercy: that inner shadow; composed of properties; standing a bit aloof: this selfless love; as fumigating lights; this art as numbness. I felt you thinking—this inner riddle—as to presume this you-ness: that genius tug; this ache of souls; this last mile. It mustn’t be love, as seeing your face, so covered as existential; or more this life, to suddenly glow, this star upon webs. I found our color, fraught with yogic heirs—running as to capture glory. Its madness this strife, struggling through mire, rinsing as to breathe; where love is hidden, this inner project—our minds floating through fantasies: that welkin glance; or hypnotic airs; while reaching for golden gates; this place of souls, this kingdom of wildness, this texture of wisdom. We soar as gems, or crystals, or quartz—seeping into holiness; this space of hearts, flickering as candles, this ark a vest of diamonds. I know this rhythm, as something detached—this personal delivery: our moment to cherish, as a secret friend—this thunder of radiance. It’s true to life, this width between us, as to ensure longevity. I felt us living, sorting through journals, rewriting inner chapters; to see this face, this breadth of light, as casual as morning dew; where love is passion, stored in vessels, unraveled to mirrors