Why Does The Phantom Ponder?

What is it, this mental chi, thrusting our encounters; this pure connection, inflected in visions, as to charge our existence; this field of danger, this nonchalance, as casual as fatal inflection? It shouldn’t be real, that inner koan, where thoughts pause in segments; to drift afar, as realizing love, this person two feet afore us; while times would alter—that inner voice, as to ignore silence; that vacant vase, as charming as ancient prose, those tears moving by recognition; to hate us more, this fatal trespass, as forced to love this vision. Our lights our red, but dare we hope—of something beyond enchanting: that outer lipstick, those inner brushes, while painting a father’s mural. We saw for beauty, this ageless vice, as surging into voiceless arks: that wave of fools, pierced by interests, afar this feral night; to see for kisses, that charming light, as to enter speaking Spanish. It couldn’t be real, this faithful dread, while love sits two feet afar: that casual love, as informing muscles, where angst profits in tears; those sorted thoughts, as to wonder if, while luxury swings into madness: this frantic star, as falling earth, to embed this woman’s womb. We swoon to perish, as realizing life—those dreaded demarcations. It was pure veneer, those inner welts, to peak at a southern misfit; to perish abroad, that breaking moon, to utter but a fraction of love. Let truth be ours, this bane for scars, in-love with this lake of roses; to see this face, as chasing sanity, where art parades in colors divine. It couldn’t be stars, as to torture bars—this attraction bent by necessity; for life is bruises, to pedal adventure, at once to realize it couldn’t exist; this place of fools, drooling comatose, as confronted by inner dwellings; to love for sights, this room made blank, as to court a fallen leaf; where essence lives, this probing dream, as to awaken gripping at mirages; where earth is passion, this spent belief, while chiseled by Samson’s curse: this inner walk, to devastate prose—this woman a figment of time.