Days are churning, weathered in activities—forever a calm
discomfort; as wanting this life, while filled with jewels, and fabricated in
happiness; to peer at daughters, as to languish concerns, that distant
unawareness; as frantic as travesties, wherewith, are heartsores, whereby, is
blankness; but more this fever, that eternal chase, as filled with ecstasy; to
outwit death, fraught in resurrections, while pegs pierce through pores. It
must be, Sophia, at war with reflection, while confused by mirrors; for
something is smart, while broken by smarts, as to retreat into havens. It’s
such a game, this obedient nature, while accepted by strangers; to outlive
tragedy, or to camp in closets, while lights shine forevermore; but art to
souls, graphed in chaos, whereto, this singing silence; as purposed to fail,
that treasured fear, peering at perfect illusions. I drift with scars, while
carded by gods—this favor dripping into brains: that far to live; that close to
die; but a riddle unto contemplation; while hearts are rising, searching this
centerpiece, chastising the fewest metaphors: that club for beating; those
cuffs for conquering; those bars for ingesting; as it must be life, our elite
sanitariums, at war with trending symbols; while hearts are feuding, at death
with reflection, this chain of gulfs; to know dejection—ostracized by life, and
ever that fever for acceptance; where rules are gray, as applying to penguins,
while we hobble for comforts; but what is love, but familiar souls, as
religious as authoritarians. I drift with panic, as to ponder those eyes, as to
see for such aloofness. I must explain: she loves that feeling, while moved by
nothing, aside from craving that feeling: actions are mute; disdain is
palpable; for one responding to a tactic: while hell is near; the vision is
cold; but those words jiggle in mid-thought. I’m lost to live it, this great
adventure, while feeling sardonic; that place of pains, as prided by wit, a bit
too powerful to reject; or more to perish, while poked by love, at bears for
something private; this heinous feud, that battle for bars, where to speak is
deemed as naïve.
