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.