It Poured into a Vase

At points we forgive—living out reality, as to become frantic; for life is more, as colored by eyes, those borrowed intuitions; where death is grand, this tragic trope, skating the esoteric. I found us naïve, scurrying daydreams, while graphic over futures; to take for granted, that living voice, as choosing to degrade self; but what for thoughts—this island gray, to forfeit the intellectual; that cave of reasons, as to confuse knowledge, with this thing hunted for: our beige coats; that allergic force; or those traveling waves; to thump his heart, at such a distance, alert for he spoke the truth. I must rebel, as trying so hard, to disregard talents; for this is law, the closer that edge—the deeper the person; as crawling-hellbound, those purple eyes, as cordial as false pretenses. It tore his soul, that manic spell, gazing into insanity; as partial tares, a bit incoherent, as fiery as untamed fires. I love us itching, as barely contained, floating through winds as tumbleweed; to know this brier, subject to ashy elbows, while reading the Bhagavad Gita. It had to sew years, into bleeding fabric, as became this cloth; this vest shivering, this tremble of hearts, as paralyzed in Spirit; that tender elf, where dungeons fell—that powerful discernment; to see for souls, this thing of humans—at needs to something glorious. I speak to spirits, at odds with spirits, as to flex with such venom; for it had to be life, as feuding his heart, while we clamored inwardly; else, to haphazardness, this thing of fools, as taking adrift by chance; this romantic air, as torn by fate—the two stranded with child; but more to energy, that gray infusion, while effused by love. I can’t but see us, as living this beigeness, as crucified by standards; to read at heavy breath, the tides of rabid death, where hell peaks at innocence. We long for colors, to see this patience, at wars with conventions; that linguistic star, abused by humans, as searching for one to one correlations; as stands to reason, that inner projection, terrified by reality; but let it burn, this flying frequency—as dancing with sorrows.