Immortal Winds

I’m musing ottomans, to picture color in diamonds, this gem by maze his soul. I loved a tuffet, this woman as square, with a niche for skin grafts; this pensive soul, as misunderstood, this furious want for desires; as howling through silence, cringing through violence, this thing about mountains; to dream perfections, this perfect person, while to ruin love; those tender raindrops, that colorful loveseat, that abandoned armoire; to set a settee, somewhere a scar, as clawing to gnaw through wood.  You may ignore me, or figure me as mad, but hell couldn’t deny such growth; to soak a pencil, in brine to blood, as to extinguish those false impressions. I felt an unction I felt a star; I know of spiritual warriors; those persons of faith, grounded in powers, refusing to acknowledge our strengths. We speak contempt; those tempest waves, at woes to explain ourselves. It comes to hatred, to justify fractions, where a wise man desires more; to die a psych, as to morph to wings, this measure by culture pure therapy. We ponder patience, while traveling for years, as one morning our phone rings; or more an email, bleeding their story, at tears for justice this light. I’m more to pacing, as afforded kneeling, to conjure up our Ghost; this inner engine, this wounded cylinder, this force by fate to comfort. It takes a tomb, to realize deaths, where love debated fidelity; to unbolt at will, this unholy fixture, this thing by voice an undertaking. I must advance, to hear about Christians, this thing far from Jesus; or rather, too close, this anxious vex, while time has forgotten its trails. I think of you, this plural admission, crawling through chimneys; that soot for smaze, this casual torture, this joy by minds of fantasy; as prone to blunders, where others have sinned—this thing of deep injustice: “I want forgiveness, but shall not give, this thing of forgiveness.” It’s a broken law, to outwit a conscience, seeking what we shall not give. I adore a maze, where minds are free, as reason guides our perceptions; but reason is pains, this amazing countenance, that block, that square, that face; to seem astounded, to hear your voice, radiating immortal logic; this place of swans, this wealth of geese, this space through arts our deaths; as gradual eagles, that den of lions, at works to support clarity.