Arts That Maze

It couldn’t be ills—this roomish wind, that sudden fright; to imagine harmony, those facial spirits, alive to that greater degree; to know by fey, this legend of souls, warring inertia. I knew a name, a subjective air, to know another name; this biblic enchant, this seismic wave, to wrestle a fleet of tides: this raving agony, to hear that name, at peace with disappearing; where love is self, those velvet contours, alive a flower as monks; to earnest a flame, this room of masks, to adventure, “It couldn’t be happiness”; this light by leaves, this aggressive world, to find that more are frustrated. I’m slow to speak it—this furious dream, as painted in moderate anger; to snap by nature, as to soon retreat, while steady at display humility: this foreign friend, as defined rarely, while given at ease; that locked brain, while shedding pictures—those tides to forge a human. It takes for conscious, to outgrow scars, as barely to outwit pains; this miracle style, while still afar, trekking a lonely valley; to capture flies, that spread of honey, to realize an offensive odor; where ghosts shift, as moods grow bolder, that desire becomes aloof: this terrible sin; that treacherous feeling; at woes to confess to strangers—that silent urge, to withdraw fully, while enmeshed by few; that chime of songs, engraved in souls, to fathom this needs for humanity: our gifted hearts, charted by waves, as to suffice a sluggish man: this violet sky; this Cajun dream; to drift by dungeons that artistry: if life is good, that inner predicament, at tales to speak a telic design: this phantom by mars, this furious sequence, to imagine that purple water; while times are partial, this elaborate thought, to speak a language of hearts; as stirring spirits, this scream by visions, a bit tawdry those feelings; to feel ashamed, while seeking lusts, this thrust by contrast our dangers. I’ve loved by glance, to utter perfection, where two became one; this Pharaoh’s chase, while short to live, a product of pyramids. It couldn’t be love, as yet it was, this man losing marbles; to swell her pride, as one so graced, this face by far a ghost; where demons sing, this walk of lakes, while nails dig into flesh. I heard a swan, while losing ground, at earth this mental psych: our frantic deserts; those miracle miles; that voice by days his mother: as sworn to perish; to die that pitted death; this breath by tears a comma. I’m reaching, Love, as to shoot a volt, this tragedy by far our lives; to mingle with Greeks, as born Egyptians, trekking through Ethiopia: that place of bones; that land of Cush; that origin of souls.