Phoenix this Life II

I’m with need for secrecies, that inner society, while to languish over small talk; that search for platinum, that fire for motion, while to wonder of Kerry: this sacred lining; that farfetched dream; as to admire Olivia; these quartz and crystals, starring into chandeliers, with purpose to fret a mongoose. I read through Tracy, enlove with disorder, floating while snatched to concrete. It mustn’t be love—for one entrenched, while lurching for a Kingdom; this vicious song, as violent as nights, searing both soul and spirit; to part a sea, this picture of Nichole, flying into Lena; those days of portraits, as perfected in whites, while musing through Tracey; this pair of doves, as more than women, afraid to sketch a tribal line. It couldn’t be family, to abort a seed, while sap distinguishes our communities. Our earth is shallow, as deep as personal interests, while a few carry these dungeons: to voice complaints, as soon ostracized, an elephant playing hide-and-seek; to see this tail, as jolly as kids, except for that one, sulking in satin linen. I’m purposed to change, at odds with furry—this thing driving actors; to feel this space, as warm as grandma, where everything carries with treasons: that fatal scar; that broken heart; or those horderves that appeared outdated; as it couldn’t be life, that Naomi flare, raging sheer indifference; so more this art, that sting for love, where many avoid eye-contact.  I thought of Jennifer, while soon to perish, for demons scream of sorrow; but this is life, as for not that grand—to utter: “I feel this pain.” It becomes trite, as opposed to received, considering our human condition; so more to Oprah, this vest of joys, as refusing to digest defeat: that Obama care; or Michelle’s instincts; while fleeing a wealth of rivers.  It mustn’t be life, as living a sitcom, for souls to enact this living death; but this is tears, that stream of violence, purposed to skate this inner funeral.