Agonies

Thursdays are sober, at least for now, howling in silence; to usher life, this fabulous dream, asearch for a second of clarity; those sharp pangs, to glisten by noon-rise, affected as a young addict. I knew for closure, denied this rite, to stumble upon this Wiccan; where hell was luxury, as keeping us blinded, this miracle to birth a legacy: that casual morning; those fretted evenings; those nights by liquor her womb. Years to pass, to meet himself, this woman by far a manic: that christic spell; those magnet eyes; that electric, “I can’t, I would”; this terrible asthma, gripping for pulling, as skies disappeared. I broke a mirror, while screaming that pain, where pieces melded together; that liquid arch, to enter our tundra, this Greek by culture that mayfly. I flew afar, seated in homeroom, at once, to skip attendance; as mother would cry, as maladjusted, this secret by deaths our dysfunction; but more to love, to imagine such fevers, while peering into imperfections; this challenge by brains, to want such feelings, as manufactured through reigns; that period of souls, this product by ouches, to see for portraits this falling person: that pedestal of dreams; to push her away; for long dies a mental impression; to suggest love, this foreign light, while cursed by days his past. We took to arts, this music as pain—our image as grains; to touch perfection, this angular walk, at tears, to honor this love. I removed our future, this biblic pagan, at tours, that second, to transcend; where beauty perished—this want to see, peering through fences to catch a glimpse. Its hell to hearts, this jaded color, surfing and skiing—and sailing at sorrows, this tomorrow at floods, this moment, nostalgia; to hold an image, this perfect desire, as to have lived beyond his station; this terrible engine, that cylinder depleted, that sudden excuse to love for winds; this error by heart, while growing in patches, as to die if ever to see those eyes. I cried a fortune, this embedded chi, at once this lament that cherished our stars; that inner samba, to sit discomfort, if only by fate that agony; to disappear—our souls at graves, to arise free of sorrows; this broken umbra, this garret his mind, that day by time to have ascended; if but for love, this coppice afar, to hear those eyes that wouldn’t speak; this casual angst, as losing his soul, where nether were found appreciative. I must for madness, to find this symbol, this weald his mind her love; to court for winds, this stippled impression, at ills to witness such holiness; that sylvan regret, at channels our souls, to want for shards forever; that dream I died, to finally surrender, from lies to prose to floret agonies.