Inventory through Bluebirds

I need a rhythm, at order to love, even those mental seas: I need a light, in order to see, even illusions. It takes for culture, this daughter as swan, exposed to molecules; this easy heartache, affected by addicts, to become so stern; to live at life, those bulbous eyes, to topple into foreign lands; as heard those dreams, that inner persona, as to glorify, Beyoncè; this feral aura, that team by brains, that inner world. I met a tear, this hypomania, as to come to grips; this artful feature, as shook through time, this mental sneeze; that riddle of rapture, to cull for good, this middle aged scholar. It could be life, if love was real—that mercy by way of practice; to honor grace, as filthy as thoughts, that part of self enslaved; to find an exit, this rash by skin, while afflicted that nature. I heard a swan, in deep concentration, as to flip a pen; that realm of coals, this train abandoned, as trekking through wealds; that feral pyre, embedded in hearts, to know by art this storm; that powerful woman, to try so hard, as feeling neglected; where hell is patience, while love is aggression, this lyre our nerves near to broken. I drift afar, to ponder for families, this love engraved upon souls: that frantic pressure, as feeling entitled, to enact such control. It could be life, this swan as driven, if breath could exit pains; that gall of fathers, while breaking rules—this mother at odds to retreat. I felt for vim, this lively ornament, as to shadow his dreams; where father died, that last for souls, to beckon grandma’s spirit: this sudden kiss, while mangled lights—our futures enflamed by love: this manic woman, to have learned so much, where souls become untouchable. I’ll dance this charm, to waltz this cry, while-ever to balance ballet: if time is gentle, this inner ghost, at wars to destroy its carcass: this taunt by days; this heave by nights; that spell by vigor a force. I passed a house, this sudden explosion, as to bless a father; but hell is warm, this trenchant exposure—a territory of orphans; to see for life, this scratching of scalps—this woman but a day in recovery; to know this language, as appealing to hearts, to realize that lost history. It must be mire, this mirror of madness, gripping a humid scarf: that inner daftness, while bent on truths, where hells approach our churches. I died a villain, to arise an angel, sipping this nectar of shame; where art would judge, to forget as tears, this place in time a gnat.