We’re Growing Wings

We’re meditative beings, this inner galaxy; by flux this intermission; to find us lowly, as pain-spun souls, tiptoeing as not to offend; but it’s highly unlikely, those self-restraints, as opposed to becoming a nuisance. I’d rather groom a soul, by mercies a swan, this fortress of buildings; to know for charity, this vat of love, as analyzed in cartoons; this space of minds, to travel afar, seated in sky-fixtures: that drooping cloud; that magnet moon; those stars by souls to motion. I see for essence, this complex art, this thing concerning love; that trail through deserts; that outer oasis; that cannon of hypotheses; to form a theory, abolished by mishaps, those features of misfits; to coach his soul, streaming as soldiers, alive that second of feedback: enlove by nature; grounded but underfoot; as seeking solace that rescuing; while more to restraints, as manipulative measures, a point with pleasures for self. It has no motive, aside this assumption, as utilized to adjudge souls. I count us lucky; for meanings, as well as proofs—are mainly subjective; this wind by ears, alive the objective, as to reject that same rubric; therefore, we honor mathematics, seasoned by exponentials, refusing that destiny imposed upon lights; as stressing to graves, by motives this yoga, a mystic released to jaguars; this different essence, as mere agitation, this space of common grounds; to provoke love, by strokes of anger, to then build a family; this sassy art, this canvas of acrylics, that math in time—ruined. I know about souls, this place our brains, fixed at certain points; to escape mirrors, this second at breaths, to return to static lines; that comb through tombs, those spirit-imprints, that voice by guts our resistance; as channeled by nature, this session of meanings, to explore this inner power; with little to substance, or more for treasures, that wick by features eternal; to have converse, peering but unseen, as to analyze through concrete; to need fluidity, as to see for persons, else for prejudice: those cold fingers; that inverted ignorance; this thing by choice—“They’re all the same.”