We’re Knitting Dreams

Maybe a few words, as spoken in silence—this heated room: that floor model furnace; those body sized mirrors; that empty blue bucket. I know not of seasons, while to know of seasons, as to ponder a name through smiles. They call us mad, a bit for jealous, for life is at motions—this train of scars, those platinum bars, that way with seeing madness; to appease a monster, while to lose a fragment, to know we wouldn’t survive—if not for hate, or rather anger—those precious amygdalas. I’ve pressured this soul, this mutual exchange, a bit lethargic—while sluggish as airs, a fire flickers—such mystic illusions. I thought to sip, this subtle war, as to pretend he will not sip. It’s quite a function, to see for issues, this weekly habit—as tinted in rubies, while to see this space, at woes to mention your name—where thoughts are ramped, as to silence with practice—those years our trenchant affections—to come with force, as spoken authority, to shift our atmosphere—this grandiose, to suffer stigmata, as worlds revolve around lies. I question fun-time, a bit restrained, as to avert that sudden shift; for humans are wild, looking upon dreams, as subject to apologize: “I meant it differently”; this tale of billions; to run a risk of not living at all. Its casual lectures, this taming of instincts—that want to ravish our souls; where tumors dwell, this canvas of thumbtacks, while ghosts rummage our courtyards. I feel a smile—this electric power, analyzing years of data; to chance upon clouds, that avid reader, punctured by this existential, or more equality, this fiction of times, running stark naked through hemispheres. We shift at turns, present to ourselves, as soulfelt as a second of clarity; to chant with swans, steady at stations, where love becomes actions; or to greet a mother, that bent for judgment—of course, all things but self; but what is life, that I would chase—the approval of one hiding from shadows; or what are functions, as near to submit, to the approvals of a lost soul. It seems so hectic—as racing through traffic, asearch for emblems and idyllic romance; this chase of passions, to outlive moments—a relic of iron our mishaps; to shift at turns, but a day alone, as now attached to something new. It darkens hearts, this energy waxing, to blame it on kismet: that fervid feeling; that dying soul; those ways as truths concerning character; but more to songs, seasoned with silence, as seated at those wings of hearts; where swans churn, peering at insanity, while forced to a tacit milieu—as affected by sights, this misuse of loopholes, as forbade from using such: this disenchantment; those partial ideals; as it’s meant for one, it’s not meant for all. I pray your soul, those coming years, as to voice our contradictions—to see with clarity, our human fallacies, while attempting to feel human: this casual scar; those frantic welts; those days at times climbing wire; where love is partial, as to ignore so much, as never to give a bit too heavy—this place in minds, as forced to silence, to wonder of pure affections: that distant art, as stippled through souls, to paint a perfect picture; but yours are thoughts—a drawer of confetti, peering at deer eyes—or more a lemur’s, as mythical as vampires—a drum as an earthquake—where parents are morbid, at times in error, a bit unconcerned with fallacies—this mystic art, this yogic brain, this place in pains our motors; to know for boundaries, pushing towards truths, while many would have you resting—where hells flourish, as shoulders drop, while eyes bulge with misery. I must retreat, if but to mention, this thing of beauties: that marvelous mind; those keen insights; that ability to compose with accuracy; to take it from mind, as to place it on paper, this feat by arts a miracle; so more this love, as chatted through wings, to awaken, pause, and there’s a volt.