Chaos Churns Order

We need purpose, this florid soul, challenged at angles; to become that—as so many years, crooked through meditation; not for bibles, but more geometric, this three ninety degree. I love and vanish, to see royalty, this color purple; to figure on stars, as grounded in soil, this branch as broken; to love with reason, as opposed to settling, this woman a feature of brains. It could be real, this inner killing, this person at laws a vulture; but more to patience, to heal her voice, this power by essence a crow; to die with love, as speaking addictions, this fragment of society; to have that drink, polished by cigars, to feel this dove. We seek for anger, to hear for truths, this vehicle by ways a phoenix: that casual guitar; that inner orchestra; those violins singing of miseries; to find a friend, as to conjure our souls, this love as magnificent: if life is death; and breath is her; I’ll manage by sights this trumpet blast. I speak of truths, to awaken souls, while hated, nonetheless: this vibrant soul, as misperceived, as doing that thing that causes ill-repute. It couldn’t be life, this feeling for days, as conquered internally: this radiant onyx, this velvet topaz, those terrible turquoise tragedies; to see this life, as shadowed in psychs, to know we need this love: that honored badge; those silent cries; this woman his dreams at flurries; to paint for islands, this marooned company, as to realize it starts in brains; that lax demeanor, as pushing for perfect—in a world loaded with chaos; to see her heart, at that very second, as chasing that feeling. I died a child—at tears to live, but only a thousand deaths; while feeling so old, this welkin effusion, a man to meditate for years: to change countenances; to anger strangers; this want by nature to appease; but hell to hells, this furious soul, fleeing through caves: this violent woman; as to change his direction; while spectators cherished their lives. I loved an image, at points to see, while disrepute invaded his name; this cursed event, where heaven lingered, this door he wouldn’t open; to find for wars, this other pleat, as seated in a world of chaos.

I was needs to breathe, sectioned in disorders, peering at this secretary: her violent air; this ghetto hospital; this man seriously demonic. I watched his name, to center his aura, this thing for psychs. We disappeared, to see for spirits, this place his soul an engine. It took to light, to ask this vision, where prose becomes an inner tome. I wrote a verse, to awaken, screaming; this secretary passing water. I reappeared, sitting at school, this ten year old mistake; to capture life, while pleading peace, this thing as hard won; to feel embarrassed, for mother was ill, that time of day to diatribe: this wealth of angst; as never a child; this outer preparation; or more for inwards, to compose a missive, as to meet a woman his image; this secret dance, to watch disorder, a bit intrigued with demeanor. I saw a friend, this kindred soul, as to have missed so much; this casual air, as seated in ignorance, where one wishes to awaken a shadow: that broken harp; those days for others; these years composing about a phantom; to see his eyes, a bit for droopy, as sober as a man in grains; this raining aura, we can’t escape, as invested in our brains. I couldn’t hear, as born to see, and now he hears; this electric voice, as so sentimental, while sensitive to words: this touch of minds, cleaving to throws, as floored to read of passions. It becomes art, to lose so much, this feeling of nonchalance. It comes by nature, this fated disposition, as to suddenly shatter: that feeling of hells; his fingers moving; this stream to cleanse his brain; this fabulous woman, to love his soul, at tears to honor his thoughts.