Life is Constant Resurrection, Wherefore, to Perish

We pine for homes, situated in persons, reading through Exercises; this root of deepness, to partake illumination, about which, our souls to measure. I’m grave that night, fleeing as to fly, but a phoenix this nature; some sort of fire, abrupt its ending, as if to dine this light; those furious gusts, planted in whispers, while panting in spirit; this rippled brook, at once, to pet a deer, peering at paranoid eyes; this sad piano, so deep its texture, as to rummage through brains. Its while joys of sorrow, or aches as pleasures—some sort of paradox; this frantic fever, shared with souls, as grave that night; this flight of falcons, this eagle his life, gazing aloft at Crowns; to breakage this heart, fiddling through pieces, while to mend this broken treasure. It’s not to fix, as rather to rebuild, this thing of Aristotle; wherewith, are eyes, a tier of frustration—this angular sabbatical. I’ll make it personal, this mis-enchantment, struggling at airs those claws; as what was tillage’d, this wounded fairness, crying through broken laughter; to sight a soul, stranded at mirrors, peering as eyes intensely; this lake that motion, cringing as filled with pleasures, to know us as something unstudied: this fabulous scar; this horrid beauty; that trembling joy—while slanted this life, this muse this cryptic bar, at woes for tears this happiness; to channel this ache, pained this sickle to soil, trekking through whetstones; that graphic dripping, this purple blood, at arms, this crimson moon. I’ll make it personal, where we couldn’t break free, at war these palms that couldn’t reach; to see it for passion, that silent giggle, seeking as searching a salient harp; that moment we died, while to awaken in screams, where love peaked in spirit; that awesome terror, as filled with secrets, that second so terrible this happiness. I’ll make it personal, this measure he couldn’t attain, grounded by infinite attempts, while sanctioned as holy, without a word to speak—this partial aphasia—as apophatic, drifting as found that losing, peeking at something foreign; this place of passions, as misappropriated, where something adventures love: that inner tome; this ink-print his name, while something so casual this angst.