Storehouse

We seem lonely, crowded by persons, restless and uneasy; for mirrors are about us, this smitten image, as screaming through lungs: those tragic tales, captured by glances, peering into daughters. There’s angst and fire, this dire need, as to expose something within: that deep concentration; these moments on earth; this fevered intuition. Our nights are maya—this felt illusion, at times, to capture our images; as reality breaks, to alter a countenance, as forever an imprint—and so unforgiving, stirring daylight, this heart the pivot of guts. Time has fashioned us, connected through pain, our couches similar but unalike; that cushion and button, that empty Corona, those tears shed by a sibling; to tread those webs, as mother dances—some type of new woman: it’s the deepest of secrets, that mind of smoke, those days alone in a crowded room; for something lives, a bit too queasy, as yearning for totality; this crucial wisdom, an overseer at war—this thing to alter moods; where cushion is descent, this chase afar, to live it with guilt. It yearns for closure, this thing with cuffs, while we all want God’s position: that faraway curse; one stranded on decisions; this woman a myth to her mirror. I muse it daily, a solitary man, at ends this endless well—to leap forever, as seeing for sights, a flood of visions flashing. It mustn’t be life, my love; so stress the beauty, that passion driven, as aware of wisdom; that inner channel, as meditative thoughts, as we inch into mystery. Escape is torture; and knowledge is grief; as the latter is far more rewarding; to give us breadth, this width of souls, as a participant this design; to wax with vengeance, to claim it for keys, as opposed to bleeding in vain: this crane of hearts, buried in dungeons, waiting that someone enters the attic.  I see a comet, this electric swan, loved by millions; as sheer amazement, this ink and soul, fleeing those webs of illusion; to find her face, stationed in concrete, and etched in utter reality.