Wave Touch

We become flowers, budding through tribulations, at ease with something askew; to harness chaos, as natural tendencies—our tendentious waves; while seated in tenets, our orders from above, peering at mystic madness; to love as nuns, this grit of monks, to relish in sheer pleasure; that guilt within, while sipping scotch—a cigarette to our souls; this famous portrait, so eager to descend, where hell paints in lurid colors; to clash with life, this feeling of living, as heavy as lumber waves; to die but thrice, this life of rebirth, to return with handles aloof; this curious nature, a bit too jaded, while to grumble through sky-beams; that too far adventure, as losing sanity, this grimace by way it passes. We’ve tasted rain, this acidic substance, at posts for thunder; this miracle adrift, awaiting our signature, where mother appears a wave; to kneel by fire, this knell ringing, this dual reality; to hear for both, this said sickness, while our recorder paces our truths; to have experiences, this secret activity, where something fits beyond those things given; to reject experience, as to monitor this threat, at woes deep within: that blossom of wisdom; that offsetting spirit; those mental manifestations; to claim perfection, while dying perfection, as to expect perfection. It devastates time, this crooked adversary, as only God escapes; as mocking, Nietzsche, this magnet of souls—a lawn filled with spectators. We live through psyches, to peer through hearts, where souls connect to brains: this fabulous maze; this enchanting voice; while to listen through body motion. We sought a gesture, to find a miracle, this thing to alter personalities: this changed energy; that removed piece; where souls surface successfully; to die adventures, rowing through valleys, to carry her by this river. It stood for kindness, this vehicle by pressures, to meet eye to eye as luminaries: that extended arc, as reaching his soul, as thrust through by spears; that electric push, while reaching for clouds, to reappear to mirrors; that lost convention, to soon return, those moments so silent to touch.