It echoes tersely, this cabbage of intensities, while akin
to haunting(s); to see this face, inasmuch as scribbled—upon a lonely fortress:
this wilted time; this cheekbone of lines; this lie about our sun as absent. I
held a crayon, while reading marbles, prepared this forest of poker; while
living those lives, as crying this feeling, as one concerned with flying: your
soul as drifting; those thoughts for return; while to measure spirits our
reflection; this mystic soul, as cordial as madness—those spoken features—as
peeking at course, this page of silence, a man as an inner child; to call it
love, or mere infatuation, while clouds drift and dissipate: this concern with
breathing; to see for treasure this infraction—those articles painted upon
mental-lips; to ask your name, this vague enchant, where such was uttered years
ago: that silken notebook; those lies that mirror; those truths clutching guts;
to fall by arcs, filtering papyrus, longing for geometric essence; this thing
as realness, to have said so little, while captured for evasion: this inner
law; that judge by jury; as for jurors our thoughts. We pass through tensions,
this explosive feeling, at converse this inner stream; to ask your name, this
addled curiosity, from tepid to furious fires: that frame by trinkets; that
essay—screaming; that second by clarity a woman’s soul: this subtle damage, to
morph into giants, that aura of Zen; or more to mystery, while raised as
religious—to admire sciences; that mental chase, to harness powers—but this
thing that lingers; this ghostly texture, as formed in souls—this driving
sensation; to confound minds, as going astray, while not to utter its monologue;
this melodramatic, as moving motion, to awaken that name:
It’s crucial that moment, spinning through webs, as
composing through psychic chi; this space at hearts, those pyramids about
words, this challenge to reappear; as something special, worthy that admiration,
as if concrete bends; this elusive feeling, to detach love, while surfing this intrusive
island; to shade with colors, this hand of God, as more than linguistic
handles; that gentle dream, to awaken—reaching, as a channel flickers
frequencies. I knew we died, to suffer that attack, where an attitude transformed
its chi; that segment of thoughts, converted through passions—so calm and so
wild.
