It Seems Dusky

There’s provocation, unto detriments; and there’s provocation, unto freedoms; to search for ruses, this self-therapy, edgy through repressions; as to surface traumas, this elaborate maze, shifting through déjàvu; to know for presence, this irritation, shaded through encounters; this new person, adjusting monthly, receiving abundant rewards: the freedom to breathe, unto the next chapter, floating this vast distance. I speak of turmoil, this life by hands, forced to wrestle chambers; that deep persona, this tussle with airspace, while time strengthens its noose. We desire pleasure, to feel it slipping—that wretched fleetingness. We heart through pains, to feel it passing—internal those pitted parts; as climbing serenity, bombarded by treasures, these things with two faces. I’m a destined man, this course of passions, as one day to become dust: What’s left of me, aside for phonetics—or rather a courageous dove; to see a reflection, as forgetting this face, lost in an endless argument; as taking its toll, this roundabout insanity, to realize our lights are off. It mustn’t be justice, as to stir a monster, with a need for caveats: that speaking grave, mourning through ashes, at miles to realize conceptions; as broken alive, indebted to gestures, while our sun winks at mornings; this given chase, a distorted image, leaning on intuition. I’m a treasured soul, feeding on faith, a portal within this vast expansion; to live as fevers, alert to chance, but a vessel to habits; to perfect a few, as core this course, our wealth an intimacy with logic; while moved by pathos—those years of moving, as rooted in compassion; this infinite chase, at pace with traumas, a bit weary of wishful thinking; to sketch a soul, this invisible face—our journey but a spark of divinity. I see for travels, this electric arc, at terms with this needed design; to scorn perception, for reality lives, as we open this need for reason; for pressure is mutual, this internal hunch, proven by physics. I’m found in space, allergic to something natural, formed in this womb of tribulations; to withdraw chaos, this phoning rain, awaiting a deep release; to feel through souls, this divine instinct, shifting while spinning this knitted peace; to dig within, this arsenal of tools, as to challenge a depressive spell: that faith of minds, soaring for closure, even that coded message; this place of symbols, an ark of signs, colored through perception. Our measures are speckled, this vision of sheep, as one that stands accused; whereat, is contempt, this roundabout order—this wealth of provocation; to find with time, this hint of permanence, as an inveterate part of society; as was this love, this hope for clearance, as to relish in welcomed shadows; that dark forgiveness, at times evasive—this moment of challenge.