Sensations

They flicker within, such lambent wicks, purposed by forces; to feel that style, even subtle laughter, at wars to resist; that inner persuasion, those tender practices, at needs this life that love. We prune sensations, while to wander by habits, as this face to face enchantment; to aflight a heartbeat, by mind that person, this wretched bliss; at woes his life, fraught by joys, leading by deserts; to wrestle at forces, this deep belief, as shadowed that same soul. Its mystic rites, this forest of wolves, charmed by serpents: that casual storm, at peace such beauty—this writhing sensation; as strengthened by paradox, accustomed to madness—this woman his fire his smokes. We’re cold by touch, as warmed by hearts, but empty as pure intuition; this zenic maze, by cryptic design, to have reached by arcs; this cultic friend, at turns his mind, churning through marsh that river: this vigil of lapwings; that garden of gardenias; that sickle to roots our souls; where candles flicker, by sudden whispers, at wars for a clear sentence; to find by chance, that cultic ocean, while seized by introjects: that calm position, that dulcet song, as one passive that measure; to see by witness, this mirror’s terror, this churning of sensations. It’s by light to flame, this world of mysteries, a group of souls channeling; to recruit by ghosts, by essence this art, nudged by pregnant thoughts; this kef of dreams, this cake of rituals, enchanted by likeness; those broad sensations, racing through millennia, to ponder a name by heartbeats; this vast that love, a kettle at winter, this cup of coco our pains; to restore seconds, as chased within, our music our thoughts for unrest; as such to inherit—genetic karma, from soul to light that flame; as inner mass, strewing through purgatory, this chase by arts that conviction; to such are seconds, as to alter reality, our motives shifting through particles; that section for souls, at question this life, a bit befuddled by science: that lake of pride; that soul of measures; that art by fire a force; to drift that symbol, his mother at souls, this child his memory that voice.