Watching as Rain Bawls

Our skies are grumbling, as thunder growls, this effects his mind; while palming rain, this petal of a star, as casual as nature’s course: a cheetah through winds; a lion at vigil; a baboon—art—to prose. It’s more that venture, this soothing scar, to engender cyan as measures; this turquoise voice, that day for mourning, when garments were wrenched in blackness. We know this space, a mother at death, a father at purgatory; this gothic temple, a skylight to a brain, while doors rattle from lightning; that vast sea, falling from blackholes, spinning through metaphysics; while captured those eyes, peering through tears, this tile to love for but seconds; as pulling back, that room to breathe, after a grueling session; where hell would speak, a dulcet heartbeat, this symbol a woman’s instrument: a somber cello; a wrathful trombone; or more this silent violin; as courted by magic, this graphic stir, as steering into mystic cliffs; to leap nearby, a spear to a thought, to love us come eternity. Its death through prose, bleeding through father, trekking mother’s haunted house: that crypt through bones; that magnet fire; those years at deep concentration; to fly as agony, to extend one verse, our souls as liquid motifs. It shouldn’t be passion, but a thought as human, where heaven trickles upon a contour; or more with chills, spread through limbs, a bit too cautious to live: this prophet’s fork, while threshing colors, our adventure but muses to gods. We’re so politic, this crazy star, at once loose for freedoms; that charm it was, those nights in Cancun, our arms reaching for disgraces; this place of seconds, to feel so heavy, as to afford living; this space of bugs, nibbling flowers, as casual as, It must be; this furious spin, as rain to dreads, this picture impressing its volume; to web mindcaves, surfing upon marsh, at tears moments that perish. It had this texture, inverted illusions, falling where grace would affect—this sturdy wealth, as something like fire, or more an aphorism grieving; this poignant soul, so deep in cauldrons, a woman this mind of morals; to see through light, that hidden dimension, where hell would elope for love. It mustn’t be kef, this contagious grin, seeking as to uplift sorrow: our credulous souls; so vacant for pressures; as to live it with pains.