entity, as casual as sudden appearance, while chills flush through spirits. i knew not
this flame, our mother's intentions, beyond credibility; as was furious, as to morph into
seduction, this voice a sentence a year; for something grew, stemming from trauma,
to take on as lifeform; this miraculous voice, as real as confusion, while to share
would be a catastrophe. i know not this source, refusing to engage, as honest as a
trapped serpent. i know not her eyes, but mainly an image, as wiles become
coquettish: these fantastic chills, that seductive sentence, that hidden anger; to see
impressions, embedded in minds, each brain a vehicle: to leap into facials, or possess
our frame, where a psych is warm to this function. i know not our moon, as planted in
religiosity, while seasons become this thing for mother: that deciduous cycle, those
leaves forming letters, that face engraved in our faces. our sun watches, infusing
reality, while we chime through delusions; to ask for mercy, as strong as sages, as
furious as nuns; to see with purpose, this thing of secrets, to have harrassed us at
this spot: that faraway glance; those foggy glasses; that second it had to speak; but
what has come, this metamorphosis, as rooted in a sub-brain: this stem, as vocal as
time, streaming an inner city; to have us at woes, these souls of fortune, abandoned
to war. one opts to become it; another opts to fight it; while many run through
mirrors; this therapy that breathes, as to wrestle brains, this life that has taken form.
