I Hear Songbirds

I angered an arc, while thinking of self, as to divest this soul—of something pertinent, this inner force, as to confuse a bleeding mystic; this life of lights, this outer delusion, to imagine there would exist a chance; but this is souls, that inner journey, attempting to do right. I crossed a path, to imagine we could, where love has sealed arrangements. It shouldn’t be true, as filtered through delusion, this tangible feeling; as flooding hearts, to wonder for whys, this graph his soul in droves; that building of magic, this thing of classes, where it’s best to float with likeness. It seems abrupt, to love without motive, as singing this foreign song; but this is pain, adrift with wings, to suture ascending wounds; this grave of souls, but fresh for holy, our families sitting in droves; this theologian, going through madness, as to consecrate an ancient motif; so more to shifting, as to select another, while ours remains this gifted torture; for this is love, to ever let go, about something that never was. I’m keen this part, searching for clarity, at rituals for months; this fatal cry, this facial presence, this thing confirming faiths; that deep affliction, as tangible souls, to ponder our grandmother’s souls. I know for antsy, but this is grave, this song sung through madness. I tried for clarity, to avoid misconceptions, where one remains aloof; but this is art, this thing of feelings, where I must express—this falling tenor, this squeaky voice, this psych pushing to see humans. I’ve died this life, as seeking this kingdom, a bit attracted to lilies; this place of venture, for ghetto souls, as to offend a queen; so more to racing, through various dimensions, growing in spirit this rain; that favored feeling, as sorted through parts, a watch as a symbol. I’m deep with grief, to remember your name, as fused to believe you couldn’t care; but this is false, for souls are love, as to imagine lotus-land; this space of chaos, for life is real, where souls perish by nature; this faraway, as to wrench a heart, to hear for trombones. I can’t but fly, a man with problems, as shifting through purple dreams; that ache of daughters, seeping into madness, too young to see for innocence; as yes it dies, a bit too early, seated at tribunals; so less to fancy, to end this chapter, sifting through new dimensions.