Far Between Spaces

I’m, too, a crevice, this petit grotto, at measures to court allusions; this sake for prose, dying as gifted—this unheard silence: that epoch return, churning through vocals—such as unheard to voice; this damp future, warring with psychs, as never to see us: that comet death, that kef by psyches, this immortal calm; as death is life, that axis by charm—this airborne message; to retreat to hells, those dregs of souls, this poverty by choice a force; where time was ghettoes, that oracle of dreams, as overly fascinated; to perish by love, this event in time, this lore of wisdom. I’m but a crevice, racing with stars, this potion as wine his mentals; to see for passion, this lavish soul, while imps encircle thoughts: to have for doubts; to cast out arms; while his were reaching fires; that ghostly lighter, those fretting candles, as wealth this vase of turmoil. It had to dazzle, as to feel a cylinder—that engine revving a universe; to die so grayly, in midst of dangers, to witness reactions to mania; this devil this friend, grinning ear to pain, while jealous that triumph. I’m soon to live, those powers in words, as, nonetheless, he dies: those crystal sighs; those casual eyes; that date in time those cries; as fevered memoirs, embracing crises, a mother as an addict; to die for hells, while seated alone, this mirror she couldn’t breathe. I remember stress—those fated illusions, while jumping-jacks spoke divinity: that crevice his heart; that sphinxly trombone; that jazz by arts his saxophone; to see as blinded, this pain in souls, that chalice by far her eyes. I’m scratching scalps, while seething at stations, this syndrome a symptom—as far his soul, pinching flesh, as to awaken sleepless; this restless night, bewitched by spirits, this omen as breathing. We know a fantast, this casual fool—so dedicated that rhyme of life; as fully an eagle, soaring mother’s terrain, as to surpass expectations: that starlit karma; to invest his sights; while to hell those scandalous screams. It had to feel love, this crescent attraction, while humans morphed into powers: that song by fires; that ancient motif; those women influencing dreams. I’m more to founts, dreading this Judgment—our Days pictured in sadness; to honor rivers, those brooks of souls, fretting those Iron Grays; for this is wealth, this pain by virtue, to narrow this life to perceptions; but what of pains, those actual things, churned by hands that madness? It had to live us, this banquet of sorrows, this melancholic Sensei; to measure existence, this fatal image, to know this feeling. I’m screaming, “Life,” awakened to blasé—this eyelet a terror-dome; to court his soul, this inner nature, at war with left as Samson; to carry arts, this arc of grief—transported with Ezekiel: this mortal wound, as formed in literature, at once, this place of Samuel. It couldn’t be dreams, to hear that voice, a man his eyes he couldn’t see.