We wander mystery, enthralled the beauty—as forever forsaken;
to see for grandfathers, that broken center, wounded by four noble truths: the need
for chaos, in jackets for order, to carry a nun across rivers; as to pause this
life, affected sorely, mourning our first breakfast. I met a sheriff, a Latina
bold, as cold as that freezer of pain: we thought of passions, classing through
realities, as to walk away chastised. It’s more the seasons, this timid
innocence, but one warring the fields; where soldiers die, while grieving
life—this purgatorial affair. I shift to mother, this love for evils, confirmed
in mischief—that grain of salt, to have in pairs, while yanking and tugging
this soul. Our days are restless, peering at daughters, confronted by sons; to
have for reasons, to break for terrors—forever this bleeding swoon; to reel as
Samuel, that ghostly priest, as Saul understood conviction; that song of
whales, stranded through regions, at once to suffer the lands; this great
estate, staring at Asia, afraid that lawyers gossip. It couldn’t be life, as to
lose a fortress, this warrior remodeling pains; to know for struggle—our
political plight, a bit too excited—that mirage; to appear that way, this
reason to feel that way, as drifting late nights through weeds that way. “Those
pains shall come—at ease this soul, such as to whisper, Freedom.” I must remember, that shattered soul, strung-out the body
sold; to feel for purchase, that reckless chase, where demons mold insanity:
this feeling of love, as misconstrued, as taste to touch, the toughest tears. I
shift to love, this blatant affair, to know it upon impact: those probing eyes,
that gesture in paint, as flinging ink at posters: this life of fools, our hair
filled with brushes, as if the sky was fading soon. It couldn’t be real, this
villain with ideals, a war misunderstood; as chasing solace, this kink in
threads, afraid the media has colored us evil; while though she watches, she’ll
never embrace, the kindness of this soul; so more to moving, while feeling this
life, as to peddle through storms; while rain would fall, where trenches
flood—this mystic air.
