Beautiful Ashtray

From ashes upon life, this heap of thoughts, stationed at souls; this subtle heat, as for one too many, this cringe by lights. I do resist—this plethora of materials, as considering a precious child; to feel this psych, while so committed, peering at colleagues. It shouldn’t be life, this background adventure—our vessels speaking; to embark upon solace, this casual nonchalance, as accused of meanness. I’m watching brains, this panic before mania, attempting to subdue tendencies. I may to win, or else a phone call, where eyes were meant for seeing; this deep phenomena, this felt infusion—our days contemplating the obvious; to see with guile, as to mold for honesties, this thing pushing at hearts; as such cholesterol, this sodium diet, as too, this Asian food; to see this life, as meaning so much, while steeped in mood swings; this casual depression, this daughter at crayons, this woman bent on something angry. It shouldn’t be life, to plague a signet, at wants to compose a magnum opus; if but to fly, at such expenses, at rights to deny those mere affections. They’ve taken a break, from haunting his soul, imbued by this act of letters; to push a temple, beyond those limits, as to witness a breakthrough. I loved a princess, as aloof to that name, while centered in a terror-dome; as to looking dumb, but feeling exhilarated, to hear those missing words; but this is art, this witness of pains, as to suggest this feeling; where earth is war, as times are joys, to punish this mirror’s reflection. I cried a dungeon; those years through bars, that casual vex; to amend so much, as bought by thoughts, while sold through raptures; this deep intrigue, to see his image, as one without a chance; but this if life, this faint ecstatic, while peering into this esoteric. I met a yogi, to meet a mystic, to wonder of those deeper desires; as not for love, but mere a number, to promote a private agenda; where this is arts, that needs for research, where a temple feels abused; at must to answer, this private agenda, at woes to accrue a headache. I ponder a swan, as rooted deeply, peering into sentences; as growing rapidly, while singing her song, at research this place of humans. I think for stubborn, this place of pain, as to believe: “I’ll do as I choose”; where people cringe, as to walk away—this monthly event; but this is life, a tray of ashes—those scrapes as feeling used; where soldiers rise, as to cherish self, while to rewrite such histories; to become valued, event unto self, despite that inner voice. Our days are mentioned, with room for nuances, while hell awaits our return.      

I came from ashes, a world to ghettoes, while digging a trench; as to flow through waves, this breathing hard—a man with dreams; to court a dove, as to breath a tear, where swans feel so coarsely; this fire of wells, as told he couldn’t see, while to flourish as a king; this terror of winning, as something upon a brink, this edge by cliff a flight. I’ve died to live, peering at professors, this connection to thoughts; as centered gravely, this wealth of solitaries, to find with pain our mirrors; that irksome voyage, this rain those wings, to feel as petal’s morning- dew; this vest as shattered, that time to sing, that second through eyes that could see. I’ve meant to live, roaming amusement parks, but days are meant for wars: this inner channel, this beefy reservoir, those arts embedded in screams; to have a second, to exclaim love, as to push for a breakthrough. I know they hate—this pattern of thoughts, but one must address it: this furious woman, at tears a warrior, but challenged by proprieties; to see his name, this radiant name, as to hate so wildly. I’ve lied to self, as to lie to gods, this feeling unbearable; while mothers laugh, as peering deeply, to see this cause to retreat. It takes by landscapes, this fretted adventure, to rummage through turmoil; this frantic dance, at chance this love, to pause where fathers bleed; this thing of vengeance, to hate by glance, this person refusing to defer; that yielding market, as living as dead, where another raves over that grave; to see for arts, this spark of wilts, as to reverse such effects; this climb by cleats, to trek through caves, as enchanted all saw God; this feral soul, as treasured afar, to feel with voice this inner mechanism. I’d live to see it, this deep apology, as I perished in return; but these are thoughts, as cleek’d to violence, this sadness seeping within; to die forever, this mind at woes, while hell invades a holy soul.

We could but fly, at tendencies a phoenix, this symbolic coil; to drift afar, this soul by nights, to arrive at heavens by morning; to sing of love, this fragile heart, at best, a fulfilling voyage; while meant to exceed, this variable of seeds, at core a soul with needs. I felt a swan, this curious brain, to wonder of torn disasters; as plush with gold—or even diamonds, this graph by far a scream; to witness madness, as to seep within, at earth to flex through mountains; this place of spirits, as chiseling tablets, to witness this thing for breakage. It hurts to feel it—this lavish scar, at thoughts to evade those questions; for why for matters, when nothing changes, where two are bent on wars? I can’t but venture, this clash of wolves, fretted by packs of dingoes; to fiddle those seconds, lashing at veins, where all fall deceased; but this is life, that pain for graves, to war despite wrongness. I speak of self, as chilled to ice, at tears, this inner castle; these neural crises, this immortal love, this inversion of a first kiss—our sublime flux, this test of angels, as to ensoul hatred; but this is arts, those pieces to puzzles, to utter, “If he can’t submit, than hell his soul”; this frantic goodbye, while others retreat, at face this feeling of disgust.