It had to sign this love, as captured this goddess—this father’s silence; to know this earth, as pictured in graphs, that song to echo our forests; where owls dwell, filled with helium, squeaking to call our daughters; that fatal turn, but more a sentence, those bars broken through thoughts. I love your mind, as touched this second, to peruse through myriads; those frantic symbols, as prancing through times, to arrive at epiphanies. It takes a stir, to see with passions, as to live a bit esoteric; where mothers ponder, as holding for essence, this place in time a blessing: our casual sins, measured by conscience, to finally sing of breakthroughs. I love our swans, this pair of doves, while stumbling at such a distance; those ritual pains, as sought for mercy, this space of Namaste. Our winds are soaring, thrusting through mountains, this angst at rest in love; to seem immortal, that brilliant countenance, where lights shine through darkness.
Saturday, November 26, 2016
Our Swans are Perusing Life
Its graphic arts, this awkward vision, to see for dancing; this chain of souls, to awaken to showers—an hour ritual: I know your heart, built through graces, as mother’s chosen; this electric wire, piercing aches, to thrust a drum-set. I could but panic, for time is thinning, this grin by chance a spirit; that inner Ghost, that portrait afar, that closing within; to see for persons, this space of tears, as seeping into humanity. I love a swan, this hectic soul, as courted by wisdom; to see for lights, this world of ways, as eclectic as undercurrents; to muse through dreams, to awaken to volts, to harmonize through Spirit; this plural form, stationed in souls, as climbing through portals. We know for rain, this petal to bugs, this flower to butterflies; as casual heartbeats, to morph immortal, rebuking eternity; to find that space, a baby unclothed, to have such innocence; this stubborn station, as accused of mischief, where life is mother our nakedness. We feel this place, as infinite grains, growing into wildflowers; as not a weed, but more a thinker, to tinkle with gods. I heard a swan, as curious to see, this place of fathers; where mothers mourned, as grannies sought, this inner sensation. I spoke of features, to finally feel, this song embedded in wings; that glorious converse, as found in meditations, to see for Zen this intuition: that ark of lights; that dwelling of inwards; those cameras flashing through mentals; to see for souls, this graphic tension, as soothed through actualities: that casual heartbeat, that frantic tsunami, those pages becoming tenets. I love a swan, in spite of times, this broken channel; for needs is concentration, this daily habit, to outsoar your father. It’s quite this task—stranded to inhibitions, as breaking into immortality; this world of souls, singing as unsung, this space un-cuffed through mantras. It had to be us, as stressed through destinies, this plural place; where mothers die, as to live again, this space kissing a wound; where daughters are musing, while singing eternity, to ensure it doesn’t go far; this inner secret, as seen by few, this sphere of Jesus; but this is life, this art of voyage, to hawk an inward dream.
It had to sign this love, as captured this goddess—this father’s silence; to know this earth, as pictured in graphs, that song to echo our forests; where owls dwell, filled with helium, squeaking to call our daughters; that fatal turn, but more a sentence, those bars broken through thoughts. I love your mind, as touched this second, to peruse through myriads; those frantic symbols, as prancing through times, to arrive at epiphanies. It takes a stir, to see with passions, as to live a bit esoteric; where mothers ponder, as holding for essence, this place in time a blessing: our casual sins, measured by conscience, to finally sing of breakthroughs. I love our swans, this pair of doves, while stumbling at such a distance; those ritual pains, as sought for mercy, this space of Namaste. Our winds are soaring, thrusting through mountains, this angst at rest in love; to seem immortal, that brilliant countenance, where lights shine through darkness.
It had to sign this love, as captured this goddess—this father’s silence; to know this earth, as pictured in graphs, that song to echo our forests; where owls dwell, filled with helium, squeaking to call our daughters; that fatal turn, but more a sentence, those bars broken through thoughts. I love your mind, as touched this second, to peruse through myriads; those frantic symbols, as prancing through times, to arrive at epiphanies. It takes a stir, to see with passions, as to live a bit esoteric; where mothers ponder, as holding for essence, this place in time a blessing: our casual sins, measured by conscience, to finally sing of breakthroughs. I love our swans, this pair of doves, while stumbling at such a distance; those ritual pains, as sought for mercy, this space of Namaste. Our winds are soaring, thrusting through mountains, this angst at rest in love; to seem immortal, that brilliant countenance, where lights shine through darkness.
