I tried to keep it, that inner innocence, as shaded as an outward appearance; that one to one, as pure correlation, bent in several spaces. I loved us dying, that thrilled excitement, infuriated with charms; to love her twice, this phantom of fools, as sheared as sheep.
I cried a legacy, our mother’s contempt, as demanding a young man; while reading souls, to die so pure, as gripping to humanity; that torn philosophy, or more a feature, that instant response—as lost and changed, or found and wounded, where nothing can enter. It’s just a phase, this inner dilemma, stationed in a psych’s soul; to give for credit, this maze of signs, as speaking to something hidden.
We welcome Zen, this force of pains, ingrained in intuition; but more to ink, dripping through minds, a yogi and his tears; to flood an earth, where souls are pulled, a woman inverted: the two as one, or the one as man, a woman and her mirror. I died this heart, this daughter of woes, as forbidden from seeing: that deep contempt; those stale inflictions; as appearing in a mother’s shoulders: this constant feat, as to greet a friend, where treasures are built upon faiths; that too near hurt, as to alter futures—just a sign of this grief; to have for pictures, this state of love, as embedded in classrooms.
I’m dying strength, his mother’s son, destined to persevere: if must to change, those prison fears, as one walking the Promenade. I couldn’t die, with such to give, a daughter and her dreams; and more to life, that outer therapy, to realize forgiveness.
Our threat is self, this cultured phantom, in love with nuance; as painted amiss, this caption of songs, while dying to escape traumas; that fatal friend, to fret decisions, where one is merely helping; but how to breathe, in such a world, where hell lingers in brains; this fret and tear, garnished by hopes, as one strutting in naked silence: that thing of glass, as buffed through mud, where all becomes a filthy beige. I can’t but see—this vest of cries, knee-high in dungeon skies; that cool demeanor, disguised in rains, as forged through societal standards.
I must return, that burn of souls, scudding a sea as stressed; to purchase a bullet, this hard investment, our years chasing wisdom; to flee and fly, those inner heights, chiseled by Trethewey: that calm excursion; that passionate nuance; those days stranded to self; as thrown afar, to render restraints, while punctured by faces; to see us perish, as newly born, this wave of inner gods.
