Flying into Darkness

It’s terrifying—our brains as banshees, fevered by garden portraits; to have that image, or more that perception, streaming through something karnac (deserted): this matrix of terror; this womb of friendships; this flux by waves a furnace; to include a swan, this forbidden deepness, where one swears by something simple—afflux with life, running from mirrors, scared to repot our attics. We felt a choir, while to hear our aria, as parched by rain that thunder: to censor such grayness, longing for ugliness, confounded by our pictures; to unlatch freedoms, those spacial particles, a bit giddy over something terrible; to die as children, reaching for mentors, to die as adults: this humble calm, quavering through hertz—some sort of vibrant kingdom; as to wring our karmas, sighted by corruption, while forced to repaint canvases: that murky memory, that mansion of cries, that time it happened to us: (It’s quite amazing to perish by our own doings while rushing to make those infractions again). It’s called, insanity, this mental cloying, as reaching for that joyous second; to become horrible, this inner portrait, to despise indelible realities—this face in mirrors, but nearly comatose—our thoughts thundering drums—while tussling guilt, this stage attraction, as beautiful as pure enchantment. We rest is silence, wrested beyond redemption—this frantic, terrifying myth; to bathe a bolt, in something pure, raging through halls of romance; to vet a feeling—so distant from self, too high to witness our insanity. We live in moments, as (abandoned artifacts), craving that feeling they brought: that radiant alchemy, seasoned by souls—this transformative feeling—as giving in, soaring through fragments, to awaken a somber slumber: that sore intensity, as to admire yesterday, cleaving to something morbid: that slanted perspective; that tired cliché; those seconds that become stratagems—where roses are gothic, drenched in haunted ink—this furious, flying kiss—as attached to motion, this fright of sameness, as casual as a passing glance. We soon awaken, wrested in twilights, attempting to frame something glorious: arrested by hopes; shackled to instincts; at times, beyond, but shameless—as haunted a scream, invested in colors, this slight addiction for newness—where life is courage, trekking through sewers, in search of a vineyard: this complicated portrait, where arts are wretched, but filled with heavens—to reach for cultures, this terrible training, while to merge with a perfect image—this radiant person, as seeing our worth, to arrange our lives according to purities. It couldn’t be real—those probing brains, enlove a soul treading mire; to seek for therapy, to learn of hate—this fragile dilemma—where self is bashed, this mental inheritance, to see in shame that star; those inner wings, flapping haphazardly, to balance but skies those horizons; to touch a feeling, rooted in calmness, to settle into that feeling; where love is perfect, by conditioned behaviors, as to live our dreams.