Feelings

I wonder of feelings, subject to sadness, filtered through experience; to speak proprieties, deepened by consensus—these late night woes; to fan a feeling, this weight for moments, as days of depression. We blame genetics—both mother and father, soaring with attic ghosts; to have lived that second, angled towards forgiveness, but finding it difficult: those daily tasks, to feel for Spirit, this comfort during times of war; or maybe a psych, to unleash a horn, as it plummets a chest-cave. I wonder of feelings, as sewn in rightness, this fever of feelings: to distinguish love, where such is wanting, a woman and her feelings: those tense harbingers, restricted to airwaves, as subtle reminders of pain. I see us surfing, afflicted by waves, while seeking a comfort-zone; this something for love, where tears would fall, and one grows distant; while instructed for comforts, this likeness of self, and feeling a bit disjointed. We fight the Great War, on course to perish, while building legacies: this immortal charm; that sorrow of souls, a bit too perky to believe; as more this seething, disguised in jolliness, a second from becoming physical; either we live it, according to rules, or remain engulfed in sadness. We see but contours, as one to carry it, where envy ensues: it’s a delicate force, at once a ticket, to a silent island: to feel such pain, the welting of a rose, shadowed by the roots of growth; to have such reason, the gardens of death—forever through seasons; as it shouldn’t be life, this chase for feelings, as embedded in one favored: that arm of madness, forever disgraced, by that arm of sadness; as to see strengths, while pain is reaching, those roots of an aunty: this casual angst; as casual charms; that ache to see our faces; where nothing is real, aside this feeling, infusing something holy.