I saw us in visions, communing in silence, our hearts an ancient furnace; this orange sensation, sewing grayness, this feeling eluding falsification. There’s beige essence, this admiration, so distant from itself; to flee a thought, this merging traffic—lost, as cruising an intricate ramp; to see an image, our lagoon’s reflection, pitching powerful vibrations.
There’s love to us, this troubled passion, souls filled with armoires; as changing clothes, to find a feeling, our scalps mystic with oils; as living affected, our palates confused, severed by something precious. We must kindle fire, a group of scouts, at mastery this forest: We must run to self, that slain encounter, while converted to sing; this passionate light, this intimate song, this something we shouldn’t touch.
I’m slanted for arts, this aesthetic love, sipping glasses of ether; to see this face, a phantom afar, where to chase is pure affection; that tale of souls—that terrible beauty, as something detached from its essence. I watched images, scratching while frantic, pulling at butterflies; to see for firebugs, this terror for lusting eyes, at woes abed this fantasy.
We came to life, embedded in shells, while crawling seashores; as perfect creations, this welkin charm, to stand atop this bulwark; this sheer effusion, huffing and puffing, infused with substance; this place at love, this fantastic voyage, feelings with such peace; to burden pain, with something incredible, our souls sitting in illusions; this space of therapy, if pursued with cadence, those truths as demarcations; this wheezing attraction, this flame about wounds, painted by something mental. It couldn’t be real, this serf of love, pruning gardenias: that centered resistance, as channeled through winds, this place of fires within; as cornered by self, this taste of truths—our existential meadows.
