Birds are Praying

I feel us, a pair of chimes, waltzing with hidden grace; this picture of woes, confined to territories, roaming this blurry city. We know for ignorance, as cringing near fans, this thing spinning hearts. I’m close that place, musing through, Browns, afraid of our sickness. This womb is burning, that place within, terrified of Glenn’s alley; that earth of tears, that garden of Frisbees, as turns this wake of death. I walk a ghost, at war with darkness, as convinced, I love her not; despite for swans, this hell of abrasions, filtered through deep compassions; for life is hectic, to realize shame, notwithstanding, joy; but there’s a soul, graphed in wisdom—our parents churning fears; to see us, while torn about, fleeing a sea-less island; to trek our desert, alive in water, dipped forever in terror; but love is more, as carried through graves, that thing crucifying life; so look for deeper, to witness paradox—this thing tearing our minds. I greeted love, as filled with mania—this frantic psych; where warmth waned, as to grow with furies—this fallen flame. The body is washed; the soul is poked; and heaven has swarmed a ghostly land; where hell is paths, this lurking of shadows, as one bombarded by faces: the soul can’t rest; the tour is shivering; while love lingers in distress. I faint to see it, this daughter of wiles—the prized soul of addicts; where regions fracture, this professor of time, as indebted to a mother’s villain; where tares blossom—into fevered roses—this fuchsia of eczema; to grip a spine, as flesh of this bone, where two met in December. It mustn’t be life—this vest of wealth, peering at foreign flavors; to offset earth, this mind of caves, at large from a hidden self; this favored feeling, this meadow of brooks, chiseled by Spanish croissants. I’m left to mourn, as something too grown—forever this pending affection: those tires of pain, as torn through threads, while chiming with windmills; but it mustn’t be truth—this thing of grief, as one stranded at the gates: peering at liberty—the plight of Moses, afraid that Aaron has garnered favor; where hell is partial, as to seek for entrance—this psych—the deadliest trance; to touch for roots, as to slide a verb, while courting a future.