Person of Mystery/Person of Images

I know not a name, this seismic energy, as afforded that brain that pistol; to cull for goods, this thing for nothing, as one a bit disgruntle. I’m trying to flee, this broken castle, at once, to your knees; while gravel that sand, to grovel less, this man her eyes; where tenets burn, as flaming through darkness, this kiss by far so ignorant. We nudge for hearts, those violet lips, gnawing a grape sucker; to die at beige, inflamed by burgundy, as so cautious that jasmine cry; as swans watch, to form hypotheses, at odds to forge a theory; but this is love, this floorboard sensation, as to arrive those sudden riches; where life is breath, at death is growth, this mortal by lights a spirit; to see for purpose, this art of graphs, those plates so far our earths. I lost a friend, where this is math, as to confess that thing of fairness. It broke a cord, to see so gently, those needs for stability. I must retreat, to ponder her soul, at tears to exaggerate; so more to grounds, those bleeding vines, to witness this mystic angst: that casual scar; those seconds at peace; as to realize this shattered movie; where ours was perfect, aside for reason, as one to return to reason—while so it lives, this feeling of brains, ashamed we ever met; for mine’s exploded, while torn asunder, as gradually I return: this space of rebels, to feel too much, as one to undermine love. It couldn’t be real, this literary fling, while parted this deep blue; wherewith, are pains, those tragic lines—mental to find a word; this testy wind, while deep in-love—this poet but a scar those dreams; while shifting faces, to claim realities, this conundrum by falcons; this speaking crow, to yield to laws, as ashamed they broke for reasons; this elegant dove, as one for filth, this breakage from terms; to see with clauses, that outer provision, while lost to liquor; but this is faith, this shifty logic, as to rift through minds those laws. I loved an image, founded in scars—this way by hearts a bit fast—to drift immortal, as singing to Becky, this space by homes a myth. It had to be life, this grave invention—such tendons to churn through concrete; to die that arc, as sifted through morals, while torn this breath of cadence. I loved a dream, taken as to feel, this thing she gave; as one so distant, while earth was soaring, as to do little to induce such fantasy.