While for observations—this city of bleating lights, as casual as one night affairs; to reach for mornings, while gripping sheets, a mouth filled with cursing: that awkward dance, as to hope for more, to see us running for cars. These colors for frights, that midnight phantom, probing that inner square; as more a friend, this favored dream, at fever this remarkable source. We saw for war, this inner delight, at odds this needed desire; as flipping coins, this faceless air, a legend in a small community; while born to pressures, ankles grieving mercy—his heart pumping love.
I’ve died to return, shadowed by insecurities—this needs to hold to something filthy: that inner sanctum, as purified through deaths—this woman at altitudes; as changed his soul, gathering berries, this sip of poison; to find for patience, those years to cherish, as they rushed away. It couldn’t be dreams, this grime and mud, as pure as lethal storms; that outer rage, to combat love, as tangled the scratches the blood; to see this face, distorted with truths, this angle bent on lies: that gin and tonic; that inner affection;—as it wails for genuine abuse; this texture of souls, grieving something tragic, as scourging this viable force. I loved us dying, this feeling of life, too cold to bear; as broken our tiles, or leaning our walls, in dire need of starch; to iron affections, this faint appeal—so destined to rupture silence.
We starred in scars, that inner angst, as manifested in hives—that ointment for love, as teary-eyed fools, as explosive as deep depression; to dip through marsh, as feeling alone, or somewhat comfortable; this psychic wing, the glens of souls—our fruits and wines.
It’s a narrow cave, wrenched in reservoirs, a marble fraught with images; to sing of justice, as vile as fungi—purified through fiery trials; to tread upon snakes, this gravid trope, as spacey as Peter; that needed soul, scaling and surfing, but a death for living.
Our souls are magnets, pulling at cosmos—this thing about impressions; to love kindly—this pillar of salt, or this inner manikin; that fire for whispers, that enchanting gait, and those eyes filled with lust; or more a bit tiny, as scrutinizing words, to hang us upon embracement: that shattered remorse; that course of forgiveness; or to change for a moment in time; while algae is forming, and grime is singing, and love treads upon deceptions. I know not for measures, as sought and sung—this tour of filth.
