It

What dares to exist if something speaks of more this wilderness captured to sequences, while daggered through soul to cranium? I knew her as arts partly crazed, a vestibule within filled with chills; they ran the length of ligaments, patient to exhale, this voice pleading its dimensions. I’m crazy to know it, cautious to breathe clearly, at woes over psychs and professors. We bond through terrible trials, our secrets kept muddy—a product of this childhood jinni. I thought to visit you, as to ask this treacherous question, if but to acquire aid in this heinous parade; that place of clowns, searing through claws, this place a fraction about our hearts; to dance through fevers, this luxurious affair, as one suspect of causing a storm about chaos. I heard it speak pleasantries, as something that far seductive, while spreading presence through this temple. We chimed for seconds—this thing of no avail, only to course through a series of names; but yours is fire, this vacant fullness, as pushing towards this horrible encounter. I opt to sing it, to go deep within this tunnel of infamous affairs; that place of no-lands, a mortal as immortal, flaming through a section of furious dreams; as possessed before a psych, that ringing phone, where codes were exchanged. It mustn’t be a host of ghosts desperate to strike existence as to terrorize everything living; while daughters muse upon this field of visions, to this hidden detriment, as charged to head into cavalries; that brigade of demons, as to forward such darkness, while we silently suffer as a pair of twins: this same event, cultured through trial through error, as metaphysics become more tangible than love; to strengthen belief, as private as privy sections, as to ask of your prayers. Mother was livid, as to pass an onyx ring, floored through topaz, this book a chest of voodoo: our famous mother, this needle through dolls, as to fortify a furious legend; but this is secrecy, these things we dare not speak, as rolling through clouds upon concrete. It knows your name, as to pit us apart, this flame to fire strutting through inner kingdoms. I’m want to hear about clanging sounds, our rooms pressured at doors, these things falling at random; to know your heart, a friend of spirits, as dreary as that last excitement.