Love/Life is More

We shook at terrors, affected at brains, this rain at wisdom: our mystic likeness, tugging at visions, our crime our hearts our resilience. I failed those tests, as charmed by ignorance, to self this legend; to topaz a dream, at regression this life, lurching at future swords; this tale of men, his mirror his scream, at sessions a sense of horrors. I found a face, as much that wisdom, to assert such likeness: that outer aura, as pagan energies, this contour bleeding mercy; as thought that pain, this wretched secret, to respond that welkin soul. We died at vests, this trope for hearts, at spear at mindsets. It could be life, to fiddle vacuums, at turns those axioms of light: this dreaded wake, his ashes to gardens, reading an epitaph. I thought it beauty, to love an island, shrouded by conceit; this train of twists, to tamper at fires, infused by a distance: that tragic muse, believed as love, this moon screaming contempt. It shouldn’t be life, where life is lived, that sacrifice of souls; to drill for essence, with few those words, where stock in seated in self. We paint it purple, our brushes plagued—our persons a shadow; to drain a faucet, or see a face, that closer our reflections; that scent for realness, to flood his senses, at once, an indecent misfit; for days are love, this tangible source, where poets blur for lines. It could be self, stationed at sorrows, peering at an inner image; this crest of passion, peeking at loneness, this person riddled in love: our souls as chatting; our minds as reservoirs; our spirits as floating; where this is anguish, this tale of cries—that feature drenched in prose. We live it well, a bit enriched, probing through psyches; to center mysteries—that ought for charms, this legacy of connections; but life is more, this picture of humans—that stress that ache that style.