Features Dance

I drift this haze, ablaze with joys, this fraction of rituals; to see this face, disguised in glory, as to hear this woman. I trek a tunnel, terrified and sick, aloof to hidden outcomes; as gas inverts, this roof of villains, redeemed through a cup of coffee. I fear her watching, that volt of dreams, as a child punctured his lungs. We disappeared, this song of wings, scudding the esoteric; to find that person, a bit distorted, peaking through curtains; to know her wish, as a woman sick, where sickness has become joy. We love for features, this bidden dimension, to seep this chi of brains; as sleep converts, to usher pain, those years singing in silence. I’m more at once—to search completion, a mother and her son; for broken glass, this vivid trope, a simile to a nightmare; as choking dust, this forest of deserts, a horse as a dying friend; to invade the islands, this sound of fools, to realize the love of humans. I met a friend, a sailing feature, to transform in an instance; as seeing faces, where blankness dwells, as to pull out features. I cried in cars, this deep confusion, as outwitted by features. I speak it grayly, this thing of souls—this polite union; to drift afar, that scarred belief, as chief of this fallen sky. I must confess, this woman cold—as warm as a flap of pancakes; to see us die, as to flourish—this dream, placated by screams; that England news, that African chant, those Asian seraphs: while shattered dearly, itching and scratching, pulling at November. I can’t but find her, this inner professor, at wars with a dying friend; but thought to mind, this morphing self, as a fraction of what’s to come; where notions bleed, as stressed within, this portrait of eczema skin; or porcelain pearls, quartz and diamonds, too far afield to die. I thought us friends, through something spirit, while personal thoughts remain: that bruised flesh; those private screams—a stranger privy to hidden dreams; this filth and star, that waxing scar, as afloat a tier of sky-beams. It mustn’t be real, as reaching a soul, that refuses to leave the sanctum; and it couldn’t be real, this psych of prose, as forever this scratch of features; to give us dreams, drenched in oil—forever this confinement.