Does It Exist, Absent of a Brain?

While we live this plane, as combative souls, this love shall flourish; indeed, this mystic chain, struggling as it breathes, once this maze of constellations; that fragile discourse, filtered by sensitivities, this place through skin that spirit. It had this feature, scrambled through sudden panic, while brains took forces as entities: this unknowing charm, that cherry incense, this koan a breeze of fury; to beckon contours, this abrasive image, where not a word was uttered. Our fires rage, that river of forgiveness, as chained this metal ingested; to out-root senses, this cordial harassment, strengthened through glasses bent on destruction; to flower through essence, this person, but the product of traumas, to force such presence, oblivious to time, this life the study of your eyes. We turn to colors, such remarkable fuses, as dreary as happiness this passing; as outwitted, fumbling through possessions, one obsessed with hearing a first name; as asking questions, which none can answer, to conclude a sense of ignorance. We speak of passion, or deep affliction, with little that understanding—while crawling, perceived as walking, as mispronounced into cosmic energy; this thing, as remarkable substance, an entity mimicking its mirror. This songless dance, a choir lacking vocals, a pair of sunglasses speaking: that tear that fell; that testy feeling; that rumbling in one’s gut; to fly as heavy, scraping gravel, our faces spinning through faceless decisions; that place of stars, bombarded by flashes, hindered in one space. It had to exist—this thing of visions, as anger without souls; to hover this background, peering into silence, while searching for entrance; as control is mission, this funeral of days, to misconstrue this operation. It’s wealth through pain, or guides through spirits—this internal conviction; to have for persons, this inner link, that subtle war, as searching for closure.