It’s difficult to see us, as opposed this seesaw, wrestling
with something esoteric; this mystic lake, where swans swim, while mothers
bathe in radiance. I’m soon to forget, as forced to remember, that hellish
winter: transmitters cuffed; pride scuffled; that pain that art that chide; to
drift afar, this scrabbled seclusion, pictured as tears that fall; this wellic
angst, gripping for ribs—our floor embedded in brains; to trek forever, wailing
such love, as charmed to efface such love. I cleaned a chimney—at peace this
obsession, to find as sore as soon returned. It becomes agony, suited for a
straightjacket, peering at delusions; that clarinet his soul, courting madness,
ashamed that heart that craving; as born to graves, that in-between, painting
this vestibule; that cried goodbye, to divest such prose, where it’s needs over
wants; that tragic scene, a man possessed, peering at a pregnant woman: that
casual sin, as flowered holy, this root to excavate memoirs. I vanished a soul,
this grain his huff, as slamming his chest-cave. It shouldn’t be life,
engrained in such trauma, a man to love as delusions; while sighted his life,
at tears, that reality, to fall by glance; this beautiful woman, at patience
that heart, to see it as harmless; or maybe illusion, polluted through
cravings, as to admire at a distance; to invade for lands, this churning
sensation, while thunder visits a heart-cave; this space of mystics, this land
of yogis, this vest her life a muse. I’ve lived in prose, at wars to confess,
as inking into spirit: those smitten woes; that lavish cry; that second at
peace that delusion; to court through thoughts, while haunted this ghost, at
sections a fire that storm; where art is vibrant, groping at shards, this
private insanity; to touch for scores, those droves of fools, lingering as
unwanted; so space to hearts, to capture moons, filtered by furious fuels; but
soon return, that stem as thought, merging with other stems; to change his
life, musing upon creations, this founded wound; to give it peace, as something
cherished, as a propeller of arts: this beating drum; these cymbals as stars;
this scar his heart a portrait; where times are gray, while soon we age, a man
his world as ageless.
