Prose Appears in Sequences

We court this life, sheared by tribulations, while scolded by outcomes; to see her face, as yielding features, our professor at war: this casual passing, while glancing to mirrors, if but a moment for self; as glazed through pains—a mother’s countenance, at odds that particular person; to see her—this light, shaded through chorus, this woman as stationed wisdom. It’s more for reigns, as shadowed in needs, this want to out-strew sorrow: that mental vest, this deep retreat, as one pleading to disappear; if but for times, that drill within, those glens surging through thoughts; to greet a child, while holding a diamond, as to give her this future. We dwelled so lonely, a mother with tears, wherewith, this grit to perish; as infused with liquor, this feature that choked, a house filled with deadliness. We couldn’t revenge it—that damaged wealth, as to part a feather at doors; this vague advance, to see it move, as to inherit this ghostly fever. “I know "his" name; we call “him”— Ghost; just reach to feel.” It tore his soul, to see this image—this phoenix inebriated; while years would crawl, to meet my likeness, a woman with a father like me. It shouldn’t be us, trekking through memoirs, at such a distance from society; as changed inside, this need for goods, stationed this inner lighthouse; that lantern of fools, while deep in ritual, to chase where birds have fled; that hundredfold, upon fertile grounds, this indomitable faith; as scorned for challenge, this phoenix within, whereto, to resurrect by seconds: that beauty that sought, those woes of prophets, to look into ghostly eyes. It couldn’t be real, as to love a myth, something founded upon delusion; this thing of souls, to see her as us, this world of insecurities; while vultures dance, as feeling our scars, those years digging reservoirs; where quartz would fall, this topaz sickness, as to feel this jasmine queen; [this feature of love, as distant friends, to see upon impact our hidden fears]; where lights are blinking, as possessed through darkness, this thing that was—this thing that is, as diluted through ritual, these bowling tears.