Coins as Experience

If time would love us—we become wise, our years as roadmaps; this poignant reality, a bit evasive, nudging at winds; while more combative, this jest of life, a smidgen too loud for justice. We live a middle path, stationed to step forward, swerving from lane to soul—ours an impasse, staring at gentle eyes, at wars to cause rain: this furious sky-fall, that fabulous tragedy, feeling an otiose rush; this futile grin, as to maintain sanity, that laugh that betrays essence; as called to breathe, at such difficulties, to love by whim; this force of hearts, that waking drum, those birds humming our agonies. I cried our days, rubbing for gripping ribs—such to anxieties! I burdened lights, filled with awe, those shivering sensations. It couldn’t be life—such pain, so young, a product of delusions; and I must be fair, despite my outrage—it’s not as unjust as justice—this epic riddle, as assailing standards—where hell becomes regular; while strangers mingle, to enter relations, two to three years of madness—to answer his soul, this market of pains, as to suggest that all was fair; this rigid beauty, this welkin enchantress, this orchestra as misery. I find a fact—we remain distant, even in intimacies. It’s riddle through grime, our minds changing, our yesterdays but memories; as such is flux, or more to atoms, where molecules are waltzing. I spoke to grays, as bleeding this soul, while grays laughed unto madness; from vine to tree, such as wild-women, coming to terms with age—as forever yearning, for enough is not given—this need to feel desired; of course, to perish, this lot of grains, a fool present to herself; to find for angst, this flesh of rashes, but steady at wars. Its signature pain, across signet storms, at ease with no man; but what to fame—this glorious love, as mature spirits? I envision laughter, a sense of vulnerability, this need to snuggle tightly; but more to conscious, this type of clarity, in-love with attributes; as feeling secure, that touch that grin, sinning as to confuse fate; that marvelous dance, at chance a volcano, skipping palm to soul; where it couldn’t be real—such this mystic love, at woes but a bump; to have such feelings, engraved in minds, stepping into majesty.