Phantom Rain

We share not this thing—graphed in sadness, this ache churning bone; as this heavy omen, this phantom of scars, tucked neatly in cedar drawers. We avoid nature, draped in cocoons, as nailed to suffering; to see ghosts fly, knitted in brains, as to relive forgiveness; this charm of fools, while gladly a prophet, asking that she forgets: the scars she drew; the tears she fished; this art of being driven; to outwit souls, with little to give, waging eternity on genitals. I sound so harsh, one tense through madness, as to assume it’s not personal; this thing of airs—where wrong is violent, while one presumes love. It couldn’t be fortune, as to greet those eyes, unaware of brain-functions. I must retreat, as it feels so heavy, while one volts passed affections: that electrocution, as generating conflict, these private reasons. I meant to ponder, as one boxed in, if only to decode this phantom; for time would measure, that perky grin, while confusion seeped within; to find her this thing, as part for beauty, where evils pampered insecure thoughts. Our terror would come, as to ruin innocence, this thing of unknowing—while proud to have lived, where wounds drip sap, at this pace to heal slowly; but more to love—that loud kiss, while struggling to breathe; as smothered by love, to witness such patience, as drifting to music. I can’t escape, this muscle and clamp—where souls become crumbs: our inner segments; that wave of disruption; this channel favored by survivors; as to drop lowly, a mind to pavement, tunneled by a woman’s voice; where knells ring, and brains are wrung, or merely this probing feeling; as metal shelves, or oaken barks, strew upon particles of spirit: that space for cloves, or long goodbyes, while perusing such treachery; as to lose it all, as the only to climb—this wall of prisons; where others skated, as cleaving to new souls, with nary a minute to suffer pains.  I’m somewhere found, to arise from sewers, carrying a vest of seeds.