Pendulum

We rev through activity, at search for silence, where chaos is brewing; that inner beast, a friend of mirrors, such tremors as chills; to witness feelings, emerge from deep—that well of cartoons. I knew an addict, through pain ‘til death, at core a sensitive soul. We can’t escape it, this hyper nature, at once, forced to forgive. It issues this design, carved in torments, to receive nonchalance; this fever grinning, this inner laughter, pushing for outbursts; to point with pride—he couldn’t withstand—this needs for management. Its mother’s kiln, as father’s distance, while attempting to function; this spaceship of woes, hung upon fixtures, this mantle screaming—as sheer silence, to spot a sphinx, at tears, to suggest peace; that rubric anger, those tactics afar, that time hell was in affect; that torn possession, this angular brain, at woes, to riddle for love. We came for arts, this broken picture, at times, are dear reward; to seize at seconds, that fatal demand, as to capture this glimpse; that inner symbol, that woman’s dreams, that man himself a legend. It’s grandiose, or more depression, at wars to find this texture; that tribal balance, this needs to think, at spaces, this needs to rest. It became life, that ink of yoga, that mirror of prayer; to become that, this thing he sought, while muses mused afar: that scar his name; that praise his scar, this man his image; to see for patience, this wealth of sadness, as to imagine this falling pressure. It can’t be life, to find that it is, while cruising through dimensions; to live it daily, those minutes of peace, at large from something within; that crazed man, that inner woman, both sent to adjust souls. We know for purpose, this box of diamonds, our daughters claiming puzzles; to see as mother, to far exceed, as one that must return. It can’t but live, while acquiring hells, to long live this moment; where love is vibrant, a bit altruistic, if but this needs for strength. It killed a section—this segment of self, as to recharge through application. We persevere, as refusing to die, this needs to resurrect; for life is sects, this inner arena, where thoughts become plants. I’m soon to live, as slow to perish, this wealth of graves.