This inner traffic, pacing temperature, confused by moods;
while maybe normal, shifted by thoughts, a certain type of persona. I may have
loved us;—as abused by status, while not to offend; but hearts echo, this
mystic song, pleased to feel eternity: that vague excitement; that tortured
music; that increment in silence. I must meander, in part this soul, staring at
mirrored eyes; to see that churn, burning as to live, this fear of aging; but
long it lives, this legacy of words, or these notes of harmony: while feeling
purged; or maybe disturbed; pacing inner traffic: that patient gridlock; those
immortal gestures; where passions intersect. I’m tired of chatter—this human
vest, to shiver that last agreement; as they want fawning, angered by
resistance, as to mock through jest; but that’s too much, while seeping through
earth, that breathlike rhythm: as in three seconds, while out through eternity,
where wise this experience. I could’ve liked us—steaming through ice-breaks,
infuriated by dreams; whereby, this night-air, tiptoeing particles, wishing
upon a dream; as creature that sun, drifting through rotation, afraid the
blossom might speak: about wise for woes; or silent cries—this creative sorrow.
Chatter moves us, filtered through irritations, wherewith, this maniacal
laughter. I heard it afar, while pausing to witness, one distorted in pictures:
that image within, through years of silence, where mice hide in personalities:
those tiny quirks; that need for positives; or those milestones carried by
brains: as futures linger; where death was greed; peering at turquoise screams:
to see the music; flaming from lungs; this harp upon a sentence; that faraway
nearness, while to rupture hearts, as about as interested as asylums. I tried
to forgive me—this fool within a clock, peaking at a promised land; where
fruits were vivid—the stars were fertile—while planets grew limbs.
