It’s
a terrible song, as to hate mankind—and love Christ; this furious passion, as
driven this soul, to peer at daughters; this lake of crimes, to feel that ache,
as life would live that love. I’m seeing trees, as held accountable—this
flagrant appeal; where hell is rubies, as mad is detriment, where patience
scurries through deserts; this deranged man, to love a swan, to invest in a
different persona; where love is gravy, while hate is torture, to realize that
infant prophet. I want to heal, as one towards a nation, to realize those
sacred scriptures; where mothers pant, as fathers scorn—a grandmother filled
with tears. It couldn’t be life, as to forward affliction, this man as
incarnated; to mold a swan, as mere this purpose, while friends condone
travesty; to laugh through cries, while sighing deeply, where forever broke its
nature. I could but cry, but what is this, a man struck by defeats; as pushing
forward, to catch a fly, as to pluck a set a wings. We seem to perish, over
hands our own, while pointing at casualties: “If but this thing, than I would
love, but hell hast not fire like a woman scorned”; to seas this art,
conversing Poseidon, where tears became oceans; but love is more, to see it up
close, as opposed to seeing something crooked: this wealth of ifs, concerned with self, as strictly a
measure for deciding futures. I must retreat—to speak of roses, this place in
time a garden; as cringing injustice, to fly with falcons, this voice within
crying our legacies. I love a swan, as born to fly, where hell is cautious to
approach; this piece of fiction, for pains are colored, distorted in
conversations; to judge mankind, as one that’s perfect, where decease in thy
middle game; as shifting through meadows, peering at lemurs, at once, a product
of parents; to crack a code, where dungeons availed, as skiing through inner
portals; to aflame as wise, this person of scars, a woman in hearts a swan. It
could be life, to break and perish, where arts would flurry through ghosts; but
time is gentle, for a thoughtful mind, as I equipped us with raja; this type of
thinking, as drenched in measures, to peak through chance that voice. I love
our aches, to arise as eagles, tearing into topaz skies; this place of courage,
despite our examples, to become as resented dearly; but this is price, for
something beige, as terrified to fail existence; so more to love, this inner
pilgrim, at times, a locomotive; and more to visions, to see beyond presence,
this art thy soul.
