We Know a Feeling

I feel your anger, seeping through canals, as living our souls; to imagine life, this color of hearts, this aqua adventure; to stay poetic, while dying softly, to remember such disdain; to utter ha, or to turn beige, this thing of feelings. I sought a dream, as counseled by spirits, to distance this travesty; while patience simmered, at deep this gumbo, to believe that time heals; this space of mystics, sipping while thinking, as to feel a bit selfish. We pine forever, athirst this void, at cords to peel reality. I say so much, whereas, souls flourish, but to render a hostile venture; where this is life, this odd becoming, to launch a thousand wishes. I know for genius, this broad event, published through emotions; to see a crow, hawking through cities, this thing of solemn pains. It can’t be love, to die so often, as pillaged by images; this liking of passions, distorted by visions, at pace to reinvent. I heard a feeling, this worry of eyes, to see this spirit peeking; as shook to soul, while hard for realness, to hold for life our inheritance; where hearts perish, this silent yearning, to figure for art this release. We saw in parts, this deep aha, scratching deep into flesh; where time is precious, this lot of woes, to adventure into joys: that broken sky; those cyan colors; that thing to live our fears; but this is life, that jasper moon, to pierce by sight that brow. I know a song, embedded in humans—this thrust toward success; to find for passions, this inner being, at once, this tier of Dante. We’ve died softly, to live with vigor, as to avoid tragedies; so why for hells, adrift purple clouds, as rain seeps into pours; this vase of wishes, to hurt so deeply, as scarred by lights this voice. I. too, seeks a vest, this dream of prose, at bones, this blood churning. It couldn’t be real, this infant man, at common this woman of days; where love is vibrant, that rest of nights, to see us as exclusive; so why for ills, this patient sipping, peering at something elusive: this well of sensations, craving as cautious, this needs to exhaust mazes. We come to terms, fleeing as hidden, this wake of graves; that seething mind, bent on motifs, as feeling a bit behind; as for left that place, speeding through thoughts, as wealth this bleeding prophecy. I can’t but ponder, as days for seconds, that moment reality flooded his gates; where love was kosher, as opposed to yearning—for this committed adventure; so hell to roses, this newborn tulip, as printed in souls; while tears are channels, propelling arts, to find for rays this lily; for truths are velvet, as even to mauve, this element destroying characters: that riddle for minds, as purposed survival, this place where we beg to differ; as life is equals, to know for stories, as to relate to sorrows; while scraping joys, as built in clouds, this space of equals; so more to musing, while shifting moods, as alive that second of anger; to utilize powers, as coined in shadows, piecing together this puzzle.