Breathe

This inner wind, this outer self, this war of woes; to see such beauty, embedded in swords, this outstanding rain; as born this life, gazing at attractions, a bit too much this soul; while flickering that madness, at points a child, that welkin experience. We took by fantasy, this mental tower, in which, our sun has risen; that muddy wake, that sluggish prayer, at tears, this coin his days. In waves this better feeling, at odds this mystery, to awaken visitations: that bolt that spark, leaning into sadness, to love by chance this vest. It was seen for symbols, this woman he loved, at core those wires that grieve; this crooked night, at wars her eyes, cringing by sight this three-fourth ghost; that body for tremors, that trembling sensation, that cry through woods our pain. We scribbled signs, influx through spirits, as secrets lingered midair: that tinge of fey; that trek that world; as pearly colors her sorrows; to invade patience, that contour that frame, as chilling as visitations; that cryptic art, at times too much, her knees to bend that shivering; as searching at cadence, while captured that light, taken by chi that arrow; as more epiphanies, that amble of intuition, to know by chance that name; where something buckles, that inner man, at horrors that heart to give. It could for mystics, this welkin transmission;—this built this engine her life; to find for love, this zero extension, pining through that sylvan that brain. We fly this dance, at soul, this inner raft, where aches speak of transcension: that nearness of chimes, this voyager of fleets, that wealth that light that scar; to have as friends, this need to suggest—that mirror through chests that prayer; where arts are gray, such objective beliefs, by tears this subjective envelope. It shouldn’t be us, at straits our courage, where visions are tatted upon membranes; to see for legends, this moment afar, as so close this touch within; to grip for grabbing, this arctic lamp, while glaciers melt into tears. We’ve grown with heirs, at core this person, such as power our fires; to waltz gently, this ballet of rules, at once, a product of contemplations: that weathered channel, that perfect storm, those welts upon thoughts this breath.