Sub-brains

Our journey as majesty, peering as to feel seen, leering into music; those cryptic symbols, while to harvest waves, this purpose our life our love; as captured in segments, at woes through grays, heavy at contentions; that deep departure, to return to self, this entity through souls. I awoke slowly, where time was blurry, this thing this daughter this harp; to see us living, this torn event, at root that tear as frozen. It was more than life, to picture innocence, a star upon psyches; as reaching that distance, tormented for untouched, this sickness as reality; to scud through plights, oblivious to feelings, as they turn to reveal sadness; that inner deepness, churned by depression, at core this life inhuman. We should see arts, forming in minds, this issue of sub-brains: that terror by opera; that horror by houses; those years growing as darkness—seated in carefulness, as one flowing, imparted through traumas. I called it music, as it morphed to magic, this inner invention; as rituals this life, chased by running, this vestibule of souls; to travel limbo, this state of affairs, enlightened through arias. It had to be tragic, as concerning humans, this aura about minds; as chiming with anger, at woes to see, beyond a selfish feeling. We started early, courted by journeys, as beck of someone’s destiny; to invent self, this outer identity, while struggling for essence. I found this truth—sutured by insecurities, at wars to escape those feelings; that inner trombone, that velvet saxophone, those hours studying lies; this art of nuances, to vex a beast, as cordial as deacons. We had to exist, plagued by decencies, at root this cultic design; by grace that name, carried with affections, as treasured by brains: this fevered wealth; that casual heartache; those seconds at harvest our souls; to break for cords, featured in memories, to capture but a glimpse; to add together, this thing of volts, while losing traction: that favored dance, this ritual affair, to feel as morphed this life. We awoke an arc, surging through souls, at core this secret message; to decode parts, as searching for realness, this enchanting ark: that space of virtues, to harvest an entity, this place in mirrors; to pull away, abashed by images, founded in another’s soul; as much as history, those sudden chills, at hours that ritual; to know this world, while singing in silence, this essence breaking surfaces; to leer at magic, to drench a song, this welt of wings. I could to heart, to see this mystic, a feature, at tears, this vest; where days are hectic, an unshakable mood, as tension becomes apparent: our lives as vandals, or more as souls—our consciences scorned; to think it properly, that inner animus, at kiss, this torn adventure; as art a sub-brain, fraught by adolescence, too young to vet for damages; this constant tare, evaluated in parts—this anchor threshed asunder; to know for lands, that impartial vex—thrust into havocs: those nights of rules, that darker self, while chased for running; to awaken passion, hoisted by prose, but a second to reel in madness; that ache of minds, traveling caves, to find for self this wound: that cordial self; that polite wretchedness; those increments seeping into reality; to cry that name, lost in syllables, at once, a force of traumas. I can’t but see us, filtered through rains, at peace this terse affection; while broken that branch, mended with threads, sap dripping into rivers; as chanced that soul, to find regrets, at wars to redeem travesties; this hectic wand, to exclaim fires, while ravished this vest on sentiments. Its casual pains, those embedded thorns—our adult briers; to have this flesh, tatted with principles—these tales we live by; while seated in sub-brains, beyond explanations, where art that life our mirrors; to see conception, as born to tragedy, to keep by bounds that terror; where cults are forming, this magic of wails, to resent such a word; as told in alliance—that cryptic song, where lives are censored. We fall at wars, this secret society, peering at warriors; those soldiers for tenets, embraced as particles, this inner self, racing through hells, as to extract a segment of cults: that velvet light; those silent visions; that space in time those eyes.