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.