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.