Troublesome

I know to go far, these tired eyes, those sinus bags; while loving textures, this aesthetic charm, our arms at reach; to seize that second, where anger erupted, to ask for measures. I’ve loved often, as seated in energies, our hearts at raptures; to come to life, as so disappointed, peering at you; this outer mystery, to believe in gems, this place to imaginations; where arts are love, this glove to fit, as seeking something special; where hell is realism, as more existentialism, as more this husband by virtues; to see with panic, this lavish attraction, at souls this silent weather. I’ve charmed vultures, expecting something genuine, to arrive at your doorsteps: this fragrance scent; those ruby eyes; our senses as haywires; this frantic ache, seeping into truths, to know but one; this thing of myths, as suited to despair, for love is clockworks; but find us now, this want for children, as knowing its but a moment in time; for sphinxes live, as riddles in vases, appalled by closures; those savage bars, as wanting friends, this place of frantic desires; as still to live, this hidden life, with angers that he spoke; this tragic pain, while engrained in sutures, to feel we must persist. I’m want to feel it, this bias life, where all caters to one person; but this is arts, to perform, nonetheless, while maintaining a hint of dignity; wherewith, are rubies, those piano gifts, that skylight as visions; to promote silence—something she couldn’t take—where love possessed her man’s soul; this ticking clock, this broken pendulum, those seconds reaching for truths. We love an image, this perfect embrace, while faced with traumas: that scorned goodbye; that fevered courtship; that visit to judges; as born again, to want without giving—this space of fools; but these are lights, where fools fall in love, while soldiers maintain openings; this grounded wealth, as feeling desired, where love lives through beauties; that fragile flower, a petal to a ladybug, as daring as a puddle of lies; but you are aches, those things his soul, to find us buried in tears; this force of goals, as mended in shards—this entrance a breaking of souls; but this is love, to finally settle, while our histories are bound in wires; to keep to heart, that river’s infractions, as pausing to hear love this moment.