Such
radiant chaos; as centered as time; this revolving sequence; those fatal
events, to purchase her life, driven by butterflies; to shift at turns, as born
that light, this feeling of womanhood. Our days are measured, sifting while
burning, to thrust a tsunami; that inner bulb, flaring through cities, to
electrify a nation; that grand scale, a bit grandiose, as featured in wings; to
love by touch, that outer whirlwind, affected by ghosts; this ancient change,
while founded in sewers, to chase mother’s vineyard. I sew as sought, this
thing of souls, that constant retreat; to let her live, this woman with child,
to fathom our literature; as vested by souls, omitting those feelings, as
affected by kindness. Those lies are won, this inner dimension, as whimsical as
children; to have that mother—such a beautiful smile, dying on their behalf. I
gripped a rope, this fidgety nature—the winds blowing wildly; to gauge a meter,
as known to misread, plagued by feelings; this natural man, as distorted at
times, this wrestle with realities; to see a woman—those social constructs, but
still, a woman. It had to be wine; that verse to pass, a man filled with
inhibitions; as barely a thought, to pass those gates, at once, a man to
retreat. They hate us this way, refusing that touch, but still, this woman of
dreams. I’m vague this way, as eyes can read, to peer passed perfection; that
lonely soul, as filled with visions—that touch to be seen as psychoses: this
lavish art, as beckoned adventure, to outlive its brevity. I felt a claim, this
wide-eyed girl—as such to perish. It comes to life, this wave of pash, while
hebetated with time: that casual sin; those torn gestures; that posture to
explain platonic. I must for reach, this thing of nature, to write as one
devastated; where tides are green, while eyes are burgundy, to retreat unto
admissions; this thing of souls, to fuse his heart, as merely an art of
traditions; but still affected, that restrictive glance, as not to see too
much: that brilliant mind; those golden woes; that reach as existential. I’ve
died a soul, ever to long, as gifted as fire enchanted; to rev forever, this
time of days, a bit for songs.
