Phoenix this Life III

This inner yogi, this Raja fortress, as akin to Bhakti; to dwell at service, that casual Bishop, fettled by epiphanies; to have that dream, cloaked in symbols, to love her at that brief encounter: its part for sickness, this mean gesture, as distorted through kindness. It mustn’t be real, this station of fire, much too bold for weakness; for stars are chiming, while peering at souls, this nightmare of classes; to graduate this peace, soaring through channels, to picture arrivals; that gaze for chills, that nonchalant love, as words court spirits. Our tour has come, as cultic as mobile, as to forsake pash: this devil’s kasha; that bending grin; those years chasing kites; for strings have snapped, as to return to base, this face straining at a gnat; where it couldn’t be love, as centered in thumps, this feeling creeping through membranes; while deep in trenches, this favor for seeds—that faraway cry; as breaking lights, in order to breathe, wherewith, this nature for seduction; to finally test, this vest of woes, a theologian as a free spirit. Our ghosts are dwelling, this inner city, roaming through psychic chi; as touched through hearts, as vocal as admission, where guilt is but freedom; to love this voice, engraved in psyches, as to ponder that inner convention. We must for friendship, this howling wind, seated at a yard of trestles; whereto, are scars, inflamed by sights, as to realize, “I knew us not.” But more to passions, that horrible grave, while raptures are ink-wings: this fret of life; those inner churnings; with need to venture excitement; for death-be-gone, this furious womb, as one addicted to a phallic charm: the arms of rivers; the wakes of souls; as enchanted by this cultic woman.  It couldn’t be real, to meet at unawares, that vow to never again; as lying in mire, enflamed by conscious—that close to forfeiting dignity: that song of ears; those eyes of slaves; as indebted to this raging music.  We mustn’t forget, those years of old, before life became a jaded event; to harvest that feeling, drilling through cement, as one desperate to clutch their roots.