Cycles Are Shortening

Many wander this affection, to see this life-form, as it mingles in unreality; to call for penmanship, this inner spirit, as dwelling in potent brains. There’s method to madness, a psych to illness, a therapist as a propeller; this flagrant helicopter, as storm and styles, a conveyer of heartbeats; to drift that portal, yonder our drums, as tribal as our last ritual; with rites to ignite, as manifested in prose, this awakened moonlight; as spark to wick, while watching flickers, to determine a course of action. It seems apropos, to ward off this thing, in hopes of freeing our channels; but more reality, this thing of fey, at times our jurisdiction; to soar through waves, as charged by secrets, this light surging within; but what to knowledge, this thing of certainties, this path that lingers in deductions; to wonder of arms, reaching through psyches, as driven to release this inner man; as for dreams this pain, a semi-obsession, where one wonders of this root. It was breath to copper, to morph to silver, as becoming gold; this art of seeing, as grains of grass, a ladybug to a petal; to capture for tears, this chase of minds, this thing lingering as illusions; but truth be gentle, this ark of spirits, where maybe it’s an art; this thing of thinking, as formed in concentration, those years at studying prayers; where cold to flight, becomes warm to waves, as something needed to investigate. It starts to charm, before it begins to vex, at want this selfish human; to speak of self, while growing in droves—this pain his life as mystic. We know for lights, this ballet of pianos, at heart this beat through guitars; to chance this valley, at times with proofs, that thing, at once, to repeat; while many linger, as shadow to soul, peeking for peering with fingers; while ours is fraught—by harvest to feelings, as something at core a legend; for it couldn’t be real, this infinite enchant, where evidence lingers in subjectivity; this objective light, to court for winds, a man to awaken to volts; or more a tornado; or more a tsunami; or more those series of uplifts. It couldn’t be clearer, to one that’s privy, chancing this vest of miracles.