Unsung Mirrors

I can’t forget us, this treasure as scolded—our memorizations; to perish a swan, this kite to rivers—our oceans as confidential; to flow through socials, as seasoned by love, to have that vast account; while felt as normal, that second her life, as broken unto wholeness; this certain term, while dying religion, to know that Moses drew screams; that fragile soul, that sensitivity, that art by waves this night; to grow as virgins, to hold for sanity, as opposed to offending mothers: this grave adventure, while painted as ghosts, that month those visits were crucial; as bent to mirrors, this psych by pains, to extend into a fortress. I loved a vessel, as sick to guts, this pressure his girth by wits; wherewith, are persons, that flame by mars, as scarred this man—our hearts to live, our wells to blemish, this marksman as a savior. It had to feel death, this course by nurture, as gifted through passions: this lavish princess, so distant to souls, as filled this tender mercy. I love a swan, those tears his digest, as to remember that feeling: to know a child, as a bit unknown, while wilderness loomed afar: that casual, “Hello”; that needs for junk food; that return as to confess our silence. Its grave an adventure, to arise this hell, while mothers plead those secrets; to try so hard, while tongues are tied—that needs to divest such pressures. I measured a feeling, while slung afar—our rooms courting images: to feel a spirit; this inner festering; to realize there’s something mystique. It came at evening, filled with clarity, while smiling his features; to arise a ghost, that time in shades, to shadow by night this voice. I love for chase, this pace of souls, to realize our love is partial: that special volt; our souls to God; that mind that travels—as part of brains, flooded with nuances, to arrive a vehicle of wars; this cryptic vision, as filled with tortures, while to stipple this daily design. I knew a source, to covet such powers, as stationed in turmoil; for pain ruins mountains, to circle for years, if truth be told this voice. It comes to speak, about seeing sites, to wonder of a left turn; but this is pride, this man of mirrors, to achieve silence; this vocal contour, at souls to deaths, afforded this gray matter; where rain is plural, those vivid dreams, while accused of conflicts.