This Thing

My thoughts are different, concerning this thing, as to realize many errors; to hear your energies, while singing your soul, as becoming a true poet; this place of silence, afflicted by life, while echoing our music. It came by chance, this radical faux pas, to frighten a silent minx. I was lost in winds, twirling through spheres, at once, an adversary of mirrors; to cross through dungeons, this woman with child, chased by far that mystic; to see us distant, this aloof protection, as to emphasize a lack of interests: that supernova, as radiant as high beams, screaming: “I care less.” It becomes a world, fraught by nonchalance, to realize: We truly care. Its radical illusions, plagued by insecurities, offset by physical attractions; but all was glory, this content minx, this content poet: so what for deepness; this thing by chance; to scribble afar as bizarre? I must confess, this wretched keenness, clutching while gripping his stomach; this rich anxiety, this want for misery, this place by far our resistance; to feel your thoughts; or to walk your sorrows; to imagine this space of clarities; this mobile fiction, where all are weary, as to have alarmed a fellow poet. I chased an image, as not for possession, but some sort of sickness; this wild root, this broken branch, this cage at needs—escape! I probe to see, if but a fraction—this part of our lives; as touching a centerpiece, or blowing out a lamp, with nothing but flurry this detachment. I needed humility, as oh it came, to rearrange a series of intelligence: that smoking cigar; those years on thoughts; that hare peering at our garden. I must advance, at least in self, if but a dream to fathom; as you must admit, this random madness—has influenced our spirits. I shift to turn, speaking not of love, this shallow passing; but more to mystery, this force by winds, this inner affliction: a set of energies, digging through intuition, congested by genetics. I feel a secret, one pushing through lights, this thing concerning brains; as maybe depression or maybe mania or maybe both; or maybe, some sort of sadness, tugging at souls, this likeness by far familiar; to polish a statue, or pet a pink elephant, or maybe to run to solace. I can’t but dream, if but to know, where life would feature a new stream; that casual art, at tears to hear, that casual storm.