Our Beloved Swan

I’m deep in thoughts, this realization, this swan as musing; to see your eyes, filled with activities, at ease, that disposition; as being disposed too, this thing of virtues, searching to perfect feelings; this Buddhist’s chase, this lotus scar, this inner person; as nodding left, while courting right, this hypersensitivity; as becoming stern, to mother’s despair, as to inquire of flames. I’m deep in thoughts, a host of young swans, poking at consciousness; to see adventure, shrouded in pains, those agonies spurting growths. It must for realness, to feel that presence, at tears, to convert energies; these wells within, as touching our brains, while to transform in an instance. Its fevered wisdom, to see as Paul, or even to journey as concentration; with such to emphasize, this inner sensation, this pilgrimage through souls, this shaky language, while partly inert, to see this sudden flurry: that dimension of swans, this partial man, while molding equanimity; where something’s missing, this channeled balance, as to become a bit bias. We know for love, this person of rain, as to witness this soothing monster; as such chaos, formed in normalities, as to become a bit outwitted. I’m deep in thoughts, to ponder your heart, as remembering a touch of wounds; to see for sadness, this rounded courage, while flitting to fly through flames; those irksome sessions, this profound resonance, this therapeutic anger; as mothers witness, to lose for adulthood, this child that used to fawn. It’s quite for natural, this peering at life, to become immersed in energies: that keen eye; that inner seeing; to essence as an Eastern Prodigy. I’m more to hearts, this mystic brain, as formed in concentration; to give it utterance, this ecclesial infusion, while pruning guilt; that sore control, as seeking for gain, while arts should arise in Spirit; this furious crane, by sifting souls, this thresh of mind this fuel. I’m singed in mire, attempting to redeem—this thing rapt in confusion; to have one choice, while musing upon many—our days seated as somber; to flicker joys, this river of geese, while channeling new behaviors. I love a swan, this flavored ideal, while attempting to right a wrong; this person of interests, those locomotive ways, that time chi exploded; to read for tenets, these inner properties, while feeling exclusive. We must confess, this miracle at play, where some opt to ignore it: this tint of rage; this feeling of loses; this want to enact vengeance; where this is pain, this trek of guilty islands, peering at someone we love. I’m deep in thoughts, as to feel your chi, aligned in consciousness; while powers form, to see for glory, that second concerning pure concentration; that intuition, that grand epiphany, that honor founded in discernment: that grinning force; that mischief ache; that time for challenge our souls; to flee from ignorance, as to mold this being—flipping while flailing fevers; this torn enchant, as so elusive, but to honor those determined souls. I see us as friends, where time is motion, this stillness within time; where life is brains, these outer manifestations, to become those things close to heart: that mystic Buddhist; that musical Zenist; that space in Christ our souls; to shift through turns, this tern with purpose, as one torn through prayers. I’m deep in thoughts, this swan as stirring, to admire this song as breathing: this casual feeling; this inner world; this place of knowing without knowledge; to witness Forever, this captive of pains, as to recharge as a flower: that calming sorrow; that blissful melancholy; that second in time composing; to joys this measure, those immeasurable joys, trekking through hemispheres: this flit of kindness; our majestic woes; our mothers as queens; while skipping through meadows, this splinter to soul, attempting to harmonize. It comes with grief, as too, a bit of grains, this infamous knowhow; while borne to tears, embedded in mirrors, seeing something solemn; as shifting in textures, to agree with love, while at woes to manage love. It shouldn’t be hands, against our souls, but more to hands molding genius.