Heaviness

I’m slanted this second, this vision of souls, as to meet your mind; this furious form, fermented in traumas, that mental secret; to keep us banished, as christic whistles, confined to cages. I love us thinking, enmeshed in tears, as terror to souls; where love is life, this infamous channel, stressed through trials. I wrote a poem, embedded with fevers, and launched it at rivers; this frantic passion, a bottle to waves, hoping on something precious: this absent knowledge; or more this present knowledge; as this thing courting torments. I loved at first glance, to see a crooked face, while photographs induced consciousness; this war of songs, echoing silence, while forging images. It took effect—this infant grin, where gates opened freely. I know a secret, this mind as terror, this enemy within; as too for us, this plague of fortunes, this yearn for destruction. It shouldn’t be real—this attic rain, purposed for failure; but this is law—this inner web, as searching for infractions; so more to caution, this inner as outer tags—this something thumping into chaos—our wearied souls, as plunged into mire, where hell taunts resilience. We know for panic, as to unbar demons—this furious faculty; where this is life, that war of mirrors, where sipping becomes fundamental: that place of fears, while love has grayed—this hoary atmosphere. It calls for patience, that stature of feelings, as perfecting this longing music. I feel at silence, sitting for several years, as to have revealed nothing: that lie of endings; that terrible nuance; those times crying to mirrors; as born to live, where tides are battles, this fever for ghosts and phantoms; that apparition, serving for death, this slanted perspective. It couldn’t be life—as dying in fragments, this purpose for living; as deep affliction, this sad thetic, infused with lowliness. We broke ranks, this mystic charm, as something a bit too complicated; so more to silence, this tacit retreat, staring at ignorance; to haunt this rule, as mimicking gladness, while harboring deep contempt. We must advance, as to set a boundary—that more involved in lies; else, to perish, this plight of Paul, stationed at a neighbor’s guillotine.