Liquid Silver

Moods travel, this carcass to flies, steady as soldiers that motion; to love a friend, as restricted dearly, as an inner message; to catch a glimpse, this reason to God, sectioned as fireflies; while touching light, a bit immortal, crawling through portals. We flushed a heart, to resume that course, as magnets that soul-fire; this shift in time, to purpose as righteous, this trek our deadly mountains; to embrace likeness, these fools of madness, condoning errors; this day to kneel, while flaming in ghosts, by territory this war. (It becomes dangerous, to generate fire, while spectators vie for privilege; this casual disdain, as cringing that second, where two are face to face; to judge it quickly, searching to prove a thought—ignoring a surge of facts; to call it this, or to call it that, as partial to theoretics). We float as moons, seeking gravity, aloft this city of woes—to cry eternal, featured in sickles, as threshed by a common gesture; but more to truths, as looking with purpose, as shifting at turns—to yearn an art, to fiddle through spirits, amazed by differences; this diverse thing, to travel by chi, at peace with something ghostly; that embedded contour, that disturbing aura, that cry as confidence. (It becomes dangerous, adjudged through history, as examining likeminded figures; to see that part, while adverse to mirrors—these two alike in powers; that furious feeling, For never could I, as we run through delusions; this outer force, as cursed with illness, where said illness becomes a triumph). We had to meet, as greeted firmly, to arouse this deep feeling; as mother drifted—those pagan eyes, to have but one mother; to see this thing, through offices afar, this thing as too much: as more addiction; as more for powers; as offended by individuals. (It becomes dangerous, to will that force, seeking to block resistance); but more to facts, this wayward child, as wrestling with bars: those inner scars, this major story, this loss of child; as not for hiding, as seeing anger, but more accepting those wars; as is to life, this vague enchantment, as showing too much resistance; but kindness died, this particular person, as desiring humiliation: this strength as growing, this hate as boiling, our pictures distorted deeply; but more to swans, shifting through times, as magnets for wisdom; this beauty-entity, sleeping as restless, this toss, this churn, this fusion.    

Fruits and teas; Hostess and almonds; a cigar and water; while weary this thought.

It seems bellicose, some type of war, vying for powers; this sore distraction, or maybe merging, this song’s vacuum; as seated in humans, this wind of daughters, while fathers sit in stillness; this brooding love, etched in time, stippled upon silence. I caught a dream, as knowing this thing—while sketched in Illuminati: this art of brains, stitched in waves, where hearts aflame—that crucial second, as born dying, each segue a milestone. I loved a voice, as to call it God, fumbling through delusions. I felt a feeling, as sure intensity, to believe in truths; this sheer illusion, as graphed in fantasies, to arrive a song by birds: this strong disruption, fidgeting with beauty, to make frightened that beauty; as torn ecstasies, peering at swans, running through cornfields—or even cotton, a soul unlocked, arriving at branches; to become a limb, fidgeting with tendons, an extension of soulprints—those diamond tresses, those magnet eyes, those calves supporting infinity—as less a legend, while more depression, having such seconds of warfare; to find this art, this incredible moon, bombarded by forces—this melody moving, as a sphere in falls—our walls measured as resistance; this common thread, if for that reason—as something so simple. It could be life, this illumination, where powers are vying for powers—as sad that mischief, as sordid that woman, as spectators watch; to hush this miracle, as sighted unseemly, siding with non-sense; but more to motion, this furious force, as treasured Luminous. I wish to see us, trekking a garden, as vulnerable as love: this Japanese wisdom; that German tenacity; our French as dearly romantic—to touch a soul, as caressed in warmth, to have you as his own; but more to daughters, as melic as heartbeats, surging by lighted volcanoes; to hymn our woes, while watchers stare, carded in our courtyards—as treading ice, this sickle as silence—your ways confusing; for what is love, that it roams our valleys, attached but seeking—if but to sing, this curious child, embedded in fiery cries? I hear for choirs, this slanted echo, speaking that reason dies; this affair of hearts, our swans computing, this thing of desires; as melancholic laughter, ignored by fancy, to watch us comport. It becomes rhythmic, as seated in behavior—those subtleties cast to winds; but more to love, this cymbal as swords, this camera as flashing!

Gusts by Hearts

Alas! this dismal feeling—to reach this missive fire, as stunted tersely, while captured but tension, those many those few for words; to see but sorcery, glinted as drums—our faculties revving as flaming: our rapture but normal, as candid a thrust—our hearts but points of spears: this being by vest, this criminal—my head!—those bars as fettled dungeons.  It storms internal, that watchful gust, to come by winds that trauma; wherewith, is fire, this keen illusion, fighting as worms that sentence; to pull so far, to renege on life, this fever tugging for clarity—(I’m dear with God, revving this Namaste—at clearance to perish your love): this wild delusion, as living confusion, to wander this vehicle of gusts; that charging spark, to pamper a book, as introjects wreak havoc—his brain!; as abused deeply, this journey of water, at tears for years that made him cold: this furious engine, tender but moments, refusing torture; to war eternal, that force of misfits, carving at this knitted bed. I loved at loses, this copper infusion, as silver manifested gold; to pull for curtains, that sudden force, as riving adventure that purpose. It couldn’t be love, this field of giants—so late he came to Church: this magnet thought, as pure meditation, our theologians running for bread; that inner sipping, at rites to bleed, tugged by lance this chance of souls; to couch such eyes, those years of powers, to see this gust as raving—or maybe too madness, this village of feelings—or maybe too vengeance; but it couldn’t be love, to sing our nuptials, a pair of depressed souls; as living joys, as discontent, chasing this miracle!—this ink of weddings, as gauged as fusions, piercing by light this sight of concentration; to build eternal, these powerful souls, each a potter of gifts; as shooting stars, to wander that ark, gnawed by sharks of thoughts: our pass to turn; this churn to fast; our urn courting mass. It had to live, this terrible terror, reading our last thump; as death would die, as life would live, this ground of mediums; to forfeit treason, this deep communion, this man frantic with gates; to see Sedona, this space of angels, nodding at confirmations. I’m lost to see it, this rapid fire, as volts have grown stronger; while more a surgeon, knitting legacies—our gusts as falling heartbeats!        

Soul Séances

It becomes power, several thumps an hour, as if shifts have changed; as one on, and one off, this friction as fire; to fall to love, this error of souls, while running off friends; to admeasure life, this singing disposition, as wafting flame; but where was I, this hidden melody, to bloom at daybreak: this forbidden chaos, as quite for sullen, those inner surveys; to find this voice, a bit for dumbfounded—that string to dot connection. I fathom power, slanted towards women, for mother was savage; this contradiction, as healing in pieces, to enter that heartache. We float about, strumming dimensions, aloof to powers within; while screaming, “Love,” this florid cadence, reasoned in ghosts; this flying volt, or more internal, but severed at junctions; thus, we live a riddle, attention to proximities, at wonders to confess this charm: this flaring light, at woes to hush—these furious volts. I used to smile, prior to therapy, while now I observe—this powerful force, as manic keenly, or anxieties nigh that vocation; to feature volume, as loud as concentration, to greet a soul as it awakens; this vest of thoughts, as pure intuition—this fabulous daughter; as both root and friend, as loving a nation; those wants to come, as pure identity, to have that furious discussion: if thoughts are gentle, this magnet wave, to find this type of motive: that mystic face; those mystic charms; that arm as living science—to curve a flame, as sudden to happen, this thing unexplained; where this is life, this driving adrenaline, rushing into torpedoes; as lately it’s been, this rhythm of souls, to enter such soul-ships.

We take it seriously, this inner world, to peer at invisibility; this lake of havoc, while pacing floors, or looming in pure stillness; that chase of persons, to feel those hearts, or one screaming for mercy; this inner secret, while seeing ghosts—our mirrors a field of phantoms; to glow with change, courted by country waves, adrift by gates this manic sphere; as not for harm, but more as ecstasy, flaring through city-storms; to live with grace, this humble face, while mischief enough to aid souls: that controversy; as carrying eternity; this student as Sensei, a necessary clarity—our Sensei as student; as psychological, or physiological, as aided or unaided—where laws are spirits, while surging this vast forest, as trekking through desert lights.

We love by nature, this platonic adventure—to have such thoughts; that outer tension, as pure an undercurrent, as souls perk up and watch: this sight of songs, while fumbling symbols, where love becomes affection; to fathom feelings, as never to origin, but perceptions merely, as kissing emotions, flooded with tempers, this furry driving eternity; to flame all night, as thumping hearts, to generate this Ghost; that Holy Essence, as pure celebration, to come by chance those meadows; to touch that river, this whiteness of souls, as dark as midnight blackness; this dearth of sins, as coming into closeness, to realize an irony; where love is presence, as singing alone—our vocals generating waves. I’ve said little, where little was said, scratching at backgrounds; to see that face, or to remember gestures, as racing through those feelings.

I remember terror, this fire as upwelling, those subtle charms; as unspoken dearly, this undercurrent, to muse by epiphanies; this deep chaos, for souls must speak, as never to surmise again; exaggeration, smiling to speak, as never to smile again; this inner secret, as radiant thoughts, as to alter a countenance; this flame by hearts, to know our texture, while others signal in; as more a journey, or more a test, or more this love; this surging power, to utter that name, as flickering our season; this charge of days, that inner oneness, as needing such converse.    

Portal Entrance

We’re treading abstracts, wafting concrete, at woes to mention names; this flavor of essence, this picture perfect volt—our holy kinship; to find Forever, this elusive friend, scudding as virtue, our minds; as ever that kiss, this liquefied position, pouring into crevices: our daily vices; that whisper we utter; those brass cymbals lurking; to invade intestines, those cringing guts, peering at travesties: this deep affection, those intense feelings, this mystery by charm our souls. I know for thereness, this bolt as fiction, to ask those jeering motives; or more compassion, as seeking a voice, this thing as pure contemplation: this Zenist soul; this mystic bracelet; that person in self as uncanny; as wanting nothing, aside communion, as wild as energies; to sing of faculties, our passions as humans, our Aristotelian desires; to flee to fly, this inner torpedo—this type of communication; to find it lurking, reaching into crevices, a group of souls by trapeze—as pledging innocence, that subtle variance, to find by fire this response: our cryptic hearts; this mystic pleat; those folds generating sadness; this sullen style, to languish in motion, as a furious soul; that inner magnet, advancing emotions, filled with mid-blue-daylight; that sin by thoughts, to rearrange thoughts, this hour to hour training. I know for whatness, where twilight is gloomy, trekking this sphere of theologians; to see this soul, this glorious ambition, while intentions become solid; this thing of never, aside for communion, as one pledged to research; while drifting afar, reading through memoirs—those private, electrical, and ecstatic streams; to find that voice, as ours peeks through silence, to mingle myriads of feelings; this complication, as reaching our hearts, thereby, seeping into our brains: that funeral of feelings; that rebirth of feelings; that transformation; as alchemic purely, as treacherous dearly, as to retreat a square—to return with vengeance, that all night séance, as provoked to seek a secret. It takes resilience—as floating in portraits, painted as a mural our minds: this grave adventure, a bit overwhelming, while giving but energies; this seeking of faces, to forfeit those claims, as soaring through space: this chase of flowers, permeated in mars, this scar by way of Neptune; as more to life, this beating sensation, to ask for but that sensation; while tugging cords, as reeling pollen, this thing concerning birds and bees. I sought at first glance, this rhythm of bars, as one so close as afar dearly—while moving walls, this pace of years, to find wisdom at ground zero.         

Powers of a Grudge (Third Tier)

I’m liquefied, this molten fever, poured into essence: our maverick swans; our comporting swans; our swans a bit of both; to see conviction, this thing of ruins, peering at dregs of purgatory; as pure affliction, cheerful apologetics, racing abound that chase. I’m but a man, condemned for actions, standing a stranger’s tribunal; to jeer at God, this question of activity, as hazel eyes flicker flames; this cauldron of oils—this gold and silver, this space of losses—as such severity, to smile towards redemption, this fruit a symbol of schisms. We forfeit love, shaded in pastel grays, to want such respect, as tyrants that respect, as pierced by kindness, to kill a fraction of mirrors; those garment confessions, while indebted that love, strumming this fever—while deep that auction, as to sale those pieces, these things that proffer balance. I’m horrified, traveling this existential, concerned with such dregs of life: this shimmering dread; this intractable woman—as such loses a swan for privacies—this furious fever, constricting lungs, as catered to by fires; this fabulous woman, an addict those years, as filled with flames—this fever of souls, this molten spirit, as liquefied for Christ—as palms are closed shut, where The Ghost fevers hearts, as to explode that region of guts; as non-affection, this thing chasing homes, while slanted towards transgression: this fight of sanctities; this pardon by Light; those facts, that life, an old chase—to pace a soldier, concerned with words, as forgetting culture. I’m terrified, this life of feelings, as courted by whimsy—to die such graces, effaced by mercies, to withhold such mercies—this casual sin, as not for reprobate, as still, an infection of spirits: those closed palms, as seeking ghosts, to chime with prophecy—as more to listen, withdrawing dearly, this space in hearts an entrance; to dance eternal, churning with Love, as rebuked for tragic sins. I proffer a vision, this swan of souls, forever our seraphim—for speaking motion, those travesty words, as provoking two forces—where ours is immortal, these waves of arcs, dearly for dead-alive—as chiseling facts, dying in fragments—our nudges holding us hostage; to see that face, encased in glory, pointing as witness our tribunals. But blessings our souls, as privy this Ghost, traveling by grace that fire—as born afflicted, to see such mercy, to feel for course this Force: this Light of days, piecing through mire, as rags purified in molten—this wave of dimensions, to explode by art, this fever by mind our hearts—as driven by kindness, this choice to receive, as to ache by mirrors our souls—this crying castle, this inner fortress, this indomitable spirit—pushing through vengeance, this twofold mansion, while embraced in sheer delights: to hold Forever, by wrists to palms, severed by thoughts: while mourning Christ, as cheering Christ, this explosive paradox!         

We Search for Clarity

We live unseen, spacing through realities, courted by feelings; this vague enterprise, filled by emotions, as claimed through experience; to see this moon, as reaching closely, in time to pass through; as born to souls, at warmth with love, as challenged to see clearly. I felt this art, so young and bold, to embarrass an entire family. I’m still chasing, as to see this voice, at turns a locomotive; where ventures are soft, as commended by hearts, while seeking freedoms. It took for years, to realize styles, this chaos performing orders: this feeling of actions, while curved within, to analyze aloofly. If time is gentle, our days shall flourish, to watch one catching up; this thing of minds, as born through trainings—this hands on experience; to die with purpose, as soon to awaken, this pyramid of activities: this vague address, as sipping realities, while lacking in codifications; to see with thoughts, this sun as living, to echo in time this fervent voice. I took for love, this thing of minds, a series of misprints. It takes for days, as taking for months, this art of decoding lives; this fantastic voyage, as filled with pains, while reaching towards humanity. I remember skiing, as to pass a slope, where casualties ensued; to love by number, this chase of fools, where a single second exploded our love. It becomes easy, to flee—while reaching for safety—this turn of traumas, as hearts implode, this residue casing a pattern; where life is gray, as if for clarity, to have feelings dictating every action. I’m soon to learn, while soaring through sights, to pause as to realize dominions: this space of merging, as found intuition, as concentration heightens. I must exclaim, those years of growth, fleeing through torments—to find this riddle, this heart as waves, this brain as certain to flourish—while weeks are thoughtful, as friends are looming, this miracle of inventions. I must insist, on this crucial fact, this giving of light is essential: to mingle by graces, as searching for passions, where arts form a feature. If time is gentle, this revving of souls, as to conquer this deep influxion.  

Unlock that Feeling (Clarity is often Muddy)

While space has us, this miracle in seconds, to near an aura; that essence, indeed, as to sickle with brains—just a touch of that space: these limits as bars, associated with scars, aglow by method those styles; this analytical, threshed by emotions, while to have died to gain it: as soil to roots, or kiln to seas, as warm enough to decode sparks; that tile through hearts, as embedded in lights, where grays become a platform: that deep excursion, as ink to souls, while structured by reason. We advance slowly, seated in subtleties, either to embarrass of compliment moments; that fair exchange, as words are seeping, this wondering of what was said; as lax with time, that tinge of guards, where we didn’t flinch; but oh with motive, as gates are charged, to see this thing of insights. It’s crucial this vex, as something simple, to realize such as dying; this field of loquats, this juice by minds, to compose weary of this message; as claiming reality, lost for confirmation, as dependent solely on analysis; or more that spirit, as cultivated for decades, peering at instruments; this curve by nature, swimming through chi, this vest as partially holy. I need to forget, as one that’s vulnerable, taken by passions; to ask this art, while sipping water, a bit concerned with sobriety; to ask that question, concerning disposition, this person as pieces fit: that faraway grin; that roaring IQ; that pain that takes sabbaticals; or more these thoughts, as clear as murky—our puddles positioned as plural: this changing of styles; this whisk through dimensions; that appearance as if the phone isn’t ringing; or more it is, as to answer with silence, as to scream at analysis; this torn departure, as returning home, to ask that elusive song—for more than rhythm, that mental cadence, to garner a glimpse through mirrors; where souls are one, as to soon break free, while to give but that reason for inquiries; this art by roses, as keen to life, as never to ignore a rooted scar; but never to hamper, as time is essence, as to address but a fraction. I need to remember—this wealth of seeing, if but a certain correlation; where muddy becomes clear, as clear becomes muddy, this flux through minds; to rely on senses, while peering at data, if but to unlock that feeling; this drilling of souls, this ink to hearts, as moving gently. 

Sacred Circles (I am Thankful)

Wherefrom this feeling, this measure of holiness, seeping into heartcaves; that unique energy, to strike as flame, this floating current? I know for names, this myriad of souls, as pledged to eternity; to see for faces, to infuse our winds, this nature of musings; as gifted love, those years at wars, to morph by study a fire; this privy art, through hearts that feel, as silence has become power: this inner engine, as sitting stillness, intent those minds to millions; as songs to sing, to imbue persons, seated at wavelike dimensions. We sprint afar, this storm of souls, skilled by brains that motion; as times are hectic, that season of nothingness, but little desire for newness. Our daily riddles, composed by electricity, as afloat at evening those joys; where voices are sung, wrestling our troubles, positioned to relax by chance; this holy fever, our realm of love, compelled to enter those worlds; as seeing life, as proud to give, our alms but a section of time. I feel a force, this present fire, to wonder about those thoughts: that sudden flicker; that slight sadness; those passions fleeing hearts; to evolve as sparks, this cosmic train, thrumming through eternity; to smile a bit, over menial tasks, that instance of comfort; as seeing turquoise, or a jasper rose, this inner cyan feeling; as castled to live, this weight in time, to dissipate but a smidgen. We love as souls, communing with brains, those fervent hearts; where minds blend, becoming one with hearts—that deep feeling as airborne—this song of hurts, as this joy to sprinkle, into this metaphysical furnace: that feeling of warmth; where eyes would water; as not a tear to fall; for this is living, to feel a friend, or one by chance that frequency. I ponder names, too uncertain to stare, as this world remains secluded; to know by chance, those rare occasions, while silent but thankful to love. It comes with heart, this person digging—as deep concentration; or more a secret, as not to speak, pushing into mystics this frequency; as feeling us daily, that shift in consciousness, as to turn that volt of living; this yogic stream, or christic souls, or traditions flooding our atmosphere; as dying to respond, while seated in motion, where arts probe nature; to conjure a name, as to finally let live, while circled in love. I wonder of groups, spread afar, while tapping into frequencies; this world of strangers, waving through life, at course to feel that fire: our morphing worlds; our fevered souls; our likeness as spirits; to fly so freely, at course, this type of freedom, while sullen a bit for infinity.   

Light becomes a Furnace

I speak a language, as one curious, to see if hearts shall thump; this easy misread, as one afflicted, to feel at reverse to souls; this casual misprint, where love is vacant, as empty as a purple moon; to die for weeks, as to evade this feeling, while sipping unto delusions. I must retreat, as feeling numb, so deep our earth is fluid; this grand appeal, as peering into souls, while losing a part of self; that drifting ink, to paint as beige, this deep in-between. I’ve written much, as forgetting tomorrow, or those sharp effects; to alter courses, as to love this sand, while tats scream of religion; that far too close, as most would perish, this woman as strong as literature; to have that second, courted through words, this noun floating in silence. I mean us good, as arts would have, a set of mystics plagued deeply; this chime of lights, while chrome would flourish, as christic as one for nun-ship: our father’s woes; our mother’s cries; our children pleading whys; if but a segment, as delivered to souls, this wail forbidden comforts; to see perfection, in cryptic eyes, as if tomorrow would expose forgiveness. I must forever, to right that wrong, if but to silence this voice; for ours is life, exploding this evening, while we run a distant mile. I’m torn through lights, agaze by stars, fleeing as flooding this image: our pagan souls, this pleat of fire, while swans admonish mischief; this feral song, while to vibrate eternity, if but that solemn kiss; where love would perish, our cousins beseeching, that casual never, as seen adrift, where illusions fumble through time; that instant repulsion, as if it matters, where a secret heart probes that love. It could be passion, clashing over verbs, where unsaid Love enters those doors; to feel forever, as long that light, a chantress sprinkled through mazes; to love a scoundrel, this mix of feelings, while permeated through mishaps: that casual sin, as repenting energies, where said Love prospers for feelings. I can’t escape, this mental tug, while furious with self; as dead to souls, but alive to Love, this feeling a bit overwhelming: that slate as clean, to stipple a fortress, this kiss as one forbidden; where sisters sigh, while mothers pledge, as fathers ask for sanity; that fallen sky, that daughter or son, while hearts grow into private quarters; to ask for clearance, speeding through emotions, to tug as if death was near. It shouldn’t be real, but merely a slant, this art as one misguided; to see as futures, this brilliant love, a bit too cold for closure. 

Palm Our Rainbow

What for mercies, accorded as flowers, this type of enchantment; to sing of trysts, alerted by vacancy, to respond a gesture in time? We must retreat, this subtle torment, as too tipsy to remember December; that lot of souls, a bit uncontrolled, while arts sprung a spring; this serious legacy, as courted in literature, where love seems so foreign. I’ve cried this heart, as pumped through chi, this two day excursion; to laugh as sudden, this maniacal venture, as painted in diamond garlands; that thump to souls, to know for connection, while at arms to reach through pinholes. I’ve died to retreats, as pulled by tentacles, as rivers swept through atmospheres; this wake for mother, this shallow funeral, those remarks concerning nervousness. It came by surprise, as searching for legacies, where stewardship demands histories; as cadence would cry, this felt adventure, to love this Dickinson. I must advance, as seated near glory, this beat to heart your voice; as one to flourish, as to never let go, where one ponders those whys. It takes for kindness, this obtuse fortune, where love seems as appealing. I troubled a soul—this manic spell, as coursing through infinity; as would explain, this felt christic, that mind flooding cavalry; where daughters roam, as filled with powers, a bit concerned with souls; but yours is knowledge, as human powers, to escape that childhood; where times were gray, this hay for horses, as if you were unable to calculate. I know for pressure, alive this soul, to see for passion those eyes; but bounded deeply, this faint romance, to have structured a fortress; that inner exercise, this chi infusion, this man running for ethics; as bent to live, while curved to exist, this nothingness at times of passions; to see forever, as way too close, as to remember this creeping grave. I must retreat, in order we live, if space shall permit such decline: this furious outfit, this place of ghosts—your soul speaking of mercies; this casual forgiveness, as seeping into ranks, while ours revolves around a sudden instance; this kiss for glory, to know your heart, this woman as read through libraries. I must advance, to heal this soul, while attracted to chi; this mortal’s breaths, as immortality, climbing for falling to do what’s right.  Would we dare that death, controlled by yearnings, as cringing to abuse our dear Love; as this is cruel, so more this lot, to become sages held apart; or to venture that death, this blush of light, while lying indefinitely.

Atmospheres: I Met a Pen

While luck had us, we dined immortally, captioned in floating dreams; this type of error, to believe as men, peering at Calypso; this weekend heart, as gracious as power, as rapacious as addiction; that loquacious aura, painted in silence, racing through electric souls; as faced with dying, this mile of miracles, this reborn penmanship as prose. I read Wisdom, those airs of Detroit, skating as to relocate her soul; this fair beauty, to earth with time, a rival for floating hearts; as measured with slants, this space of Brimhall, this cadence a refuge in Smith; where times are actors, that lavish cinema, that time we would as we couldn’t; to feel eternal, immortalized in ink, this hallway by chases of Herrera; to find our death, this temporal kef, lashing out at ceramics; that anger my soul, to plummet as passive, this woman draped in beige; to have that night, broken for shattered, as each piece becomes a hero, or more a heroine, reaching for doves, as infamous as Maxine; this castle above stars, this falling into ponds—our swans grinning each tear; this love of life, prior to runaways, as fumigated in pine-sol; to die professors, our arts as subtle, to cleave to creativity; as would Josephine, all souls included, racing through Universities. I dare for chance, to have this crown, as reaching myriads of souls; to see Calypso, so brave as aged, as beautiful as mother’s nightmare; this partial kiss, with eyes held downwards, as a palm caresses our heartcaves; this churn of days, as light would contend, this dangerous, Trethewey; or more to energies, fleeing through Mississippi—as hounds scurry, this inner location, our limbs dangling through treachery. It’s more to love, to have died our arts, while Dove crochets a destiny of souls; this acrylic paint, splattered upon boxes, where roses are sprouting from cardboard; this chase of cygnets, this watch for centaurs—our mornings appreciating hindsight.  I met a pen, as tide to promise, to give pieces of this soul. We danced in harmony, for projects a mile, while reneging on contracts: this hell by arts, this flower as acidic, this flesh as tatted with ostracism; to curve this light, our brains to furious, as panting at brooks: this lavish picture, those palms of dragons, rushing to freedom by seas; this certain betrayal, as hearted to songs, where unsaid love correlates.  It’s time by portraits, gazing at Dickinson, amazed by similarities; those mystic cries, by way this soul, as ignited as gasoline; to morph through flames, this tale of hearts, to create a legacy; while mothers peruse, as sent to adjudge, where daughters muse upon eyes; those loquat features, steered into madness, as to live captive by sins; this grave goodbye, as purple passions, this museum of poets; that itchy sacrifice, as transformed in seconds, to space through letters as atmospheres.       

Eyes

give me life, this eternal mischief, to return to burning eyes. this man of dregs, aside his bars, this prison of beauty; as locks brittle, this needs for moisture, peering back at sunny eyes; to court his future, this inner chiseling, as mother’s deathbed; this vanished soul, to perish alone, as others robbed the dead. it’s long goodnights, short mornings for glory, this message embedded in aunt’s eyes. i hear us pawing, amazed by dungeons, this tinge of freedom: that dark goodbye, that murky Sunday, those tides through daughters their cries. we ablaze history, that turn of respect, to mingle through forests this waking; where father roamed, from cities to states, this cultic turn. i saw an image, weary to fall in love, as obtuse to its truest nature: that human curse, that future hearse, this blizzard by ways of medias; as crying forgiveness, while filled with torments, this thing painted in joys. our churns forbidden, to travel through London, to christen each podium; this fever i yearns, to absorb such mystics, at whys to know this name; while deep this urn, this Jenni in a vase, to float half-body this heart: upon Wednesday Ash, this series of ghosts, to flood a Frederick Attic; as buried with time, a legend to souls, to have given thrust through years. i sighed our passions, to mistaken such distance, this soul this want this fool. it’s cryptic lights, those codes for reasoning, stranded—eyes open—that trek; to exhaust love, as built at seconds, while to retreat to eyes: that dye of minutes, this treacherous outcome, at once that daughter’s soul; as mother ponders, this creator of life, driven through motion why sitting. we blame sodium; we harbor doubts; anything but, God! i lost a mind, to return a dove, weary of such beauty: this trepid sight, this voltaic night, this plight by gifts that blessing of tears: to salter his soul; to saunter his garden; to dress as one addicted—to glory to fame, or glossy eyes, that intrepid rustling; as days to burn, those firebrand eyes, as tormented by opinions: those lavish scars; that immortal heart; those ways at stations such vomit. i needs to love, such volume to souls, as one crazed with purpose; to see agendas, as slight invitations, to advance a stage of travesties; as long we live, as mortal-immortals, our legends captured upon dreams; to hold that soul, while to feel that moment, as to urge for its return.   

We Rest While Dreams Form Visions

We stand astounded, as welkin this love, founded by soil this inverse; to die so gently, as reversed in time, where passion killed myriads. I know for hearts, as raving that feeling, to mesh as one in passing; this fragrant compassion, to see us flourish, while in life so distant. It must as was, this fervent feeling, as arising with tendons; to crawl our souls, this light of growth, while patient to witness destruction. I probe as living, this generous love, while torn through patience. It had to die us, as living eternal, to know for minds over sex; this beating cymbal, as violet symbols—that arch parading its traumas; to feel at voice, this sudden surge, where vibes construct a legacy. (This is us, revving a generation, as two a bit too grandiose); where life is actions, as centered in rituals, where hearts plague each cavity; this cave of fools, practiced as saints, this place in love our rhythms. I know for lightning, this infant of souls, while heart to soul this volume; to paint with visions, this torn affliction, wailing as joyful graves; to live that life, perfected as sinless, that feeling so near that domain; where souls flourish, as to know that spirit, while daughters probe sanctuaries; but more our defeat, as searching long-range, to have this tingle of fools; to see for liquor, as mothers perish, while art pieces together bones; this furious factor, to know such kindness, as opposed to total disenchant. It comes with time, to observe love, as one pays those dues of scoundrels; but this is love, as repenting another’s sins, at waves to see clearance: that carnal touch, as sequenced in pains, to groan in tears that vacancy. I’ve died this life, as charged in fervor, to place such faith in love: this patient fool, to finally retrieve, while to ponder that vocation; this rest of minds, as felt this second, as opposed to several years. It could be life, this woman as friend, where two debate that rising location; or it could be death, as reaching for breath, to heave in passion this debris; as art to souls, this bone through marrow, if but an archaic painting; to advance as sought, this passive disdain, where one loves that daring soul; to win such favor, as touch to soul, where logic is slung asunder! 

Soul-Chants

I love her dearly, as dearly to die, while filled with analytical anguish; to see those eyes, as watered with grains, this fever our fires restrained. I love a swan, as few would see, where rituals tug that infant soul. I love a cygnet, as arts shall venture, while alert to this common blockage. Oh for blackholes, streaming eternal, as one this christic mind; to feel each thorn, plunging into palms, gripping for falling into tongues. I need to love, if space is gentle, this charm by ghosts—our immortal hearts; to plunge a city, as digging through holes, while souls gesture our arrival. I hear a feeling, as gifted with chimes, to echo a century apart: this fevered flush, this plus experience, that second in time as furious; to feel for fears, this holy agony, while screaming for saints. It took for time, this scoundrel of arts, to bless unholy eyes; this deep contempt, while loving Christ, as permeated in a small office. I’ve died our union, while courted by ghosts, as to witness this other world; where grandparents flourish, while mothers nourish, this born again excitement. It should be hopes, to erect a mountain, as to climb those shoulders. I heard in praise, this immortal arm, as falling while dying those claims to heaven. It takes for time, to see this motion, while a spirit kisses our lips. I was needs to feel, that vacant touch, as mortals become this liquid spirit: to feel a psych; or to whisper a sage; while deepness this mindcave; as pushing forward, to touch that heart, as love would prove immortal: that second in time, that moment in feelings, those blessings streaming through eternity. I love mother, this vicious force, as orientating a young novice: I see for pain; I have that word; I know when to retreat: this is mother’s soul, to raise a spirit, where grandmother gave elasticity; this feral band, to bond a family, where aunts put to practice those gifts. It took for love, this shedding of souls, this yogic captivation; as near immortal, while snatched adrift, this Spanish adventure: our Latin ways; our French endeavors; our Danish rites; where to float—straight to Africa, while hated for pigmentation; as running home, this broad America, peering into this rising fall. I call to life, as a daughter exists, to plummet that tiny heart; while furious a dream, to curse that soul, as feeling dead. It loves this life, this fervent force, as revving this vehicle. I must confess, as eyes are moist, this love for October; where spirits rise, as singing love, this place in self that soul.

Taken by Rapture those Eyes

Such radiant features, as immaculate claws, floating is space those eyes; to glisten as presence, alert to wisdom, tugging while gazing our souls. Where thoughts would flourish, time’s embarrassments, for sights those wants those possessions; as affected gently, our hearts as magnets, to rub scalps nearly psychotic; to banish sipping, cleaving to mercies, abased towards humility. I saw perfection, this daisy that soul, changed as torments—those blizzards of woes, reaching for gripping—a palm filled with hopes. I flitted to beauty, this actress of minds, seized by something immortal; this disturbed chimney, peeling at soot, as white as ivory diamonds: (Our wills our ways—this chase as mythic, to ask but flesh, this numbing feeling). We assert forever, this temporary pash, scudding as running from eyes: that deceptive contour, as if unaffected—the effects of something internal: that immortal cry, sought such irritation, as clawing at perfumes: this amazed grin, to have mustard courage, as to utter a fatal flaw—our vests as touching, those immortal violets, pinned by petals. I adjure you, this frantic composure, oh by your God: this celebration, as calming by letters, to become this feature; to examine skin, while enthralled that sight, challenged to resist a memory at wars: that grin as tinted; those pearly eyes; that contour that wants forsaken. I’m still with love, peeking at seconds, as to retreat into self; that fabulous outcry, seasoned with melancholy, as filled that joy your heart.  I retreat to fancy, at pulls this oxygen, reaching though pausing for petro; to see those arms, such glamorous springs, as purposed for perfection—that shift in tones, our drums at wires, every beat thumping through parrots—as sought to sing, at refuge from love, as seated in something cozy—that art’s guitar, those cymbals by waves, that sea seated at a furnace—as ships sail, those fatal romances, to have died a songbird. I heard a voice, to portrait an image, reading by fingertips; this depth our souls, a bit too squirrely, as too, a bit for fires: that electric arc, as sought to sun, at seconds this immortal high; to see adventure, in something foreign, as to never embrace our pulse.  

Resurrections as Hearts

This abundant joy, fraught with such sorrow, as becoming a paradox; to offend casually, gripping false pride, as to abandon humility: I’m getting clearer, as praise to psychs, this passage of entities; as abused was, to become free, while to hear a dead voice; this cryptic woman, as to summons graves, those years as adolescence; to curb a prayer, seated at hearts, to feel this young swan; as not to preach, but to appreciate souls, as to share our gifts. I love by nature, founded in Christ, to defend a certain surge; where mothers pant, as fathers guzzle, as two come into fires. It took for years, to sage this life, as one gauged as wisdom; to see your face, as affronting this heart, while to appease through graces: this fabulous storm; that curious seed; those ways I must defend; this furious woman, as sectioned to perish, this fate afforded to souls; but more to joys, this locomotive, as trains stress cultic psyches. I asked a question, as to stir disdain, while to love fervently; this fever of fools, as to evolve this mind, this person flaming through Jesus. It had to live us, this laboring phrase, as to impute a secret. I find a cave, where anger would linger, as concerned to confess; plus, for therapy, this subtle reply, that strikes at consciousness. It could be gravy, if not for resistance, as one that adores sipping; this casual address, this immortal woman, this place given to aid souls. I must confess, this love for music, while striking through planets; to feel this Ghost, or to feel our hearts, as to resonate as immortals; this logic cry, as painted upon brains, where one fasts for several weeks; this gift of days, while deep in reason, as to chase through electricity. I pride this face, as to hypnotize a soul, where eyes are lemur dimensions; to sing with passion, this deep economy, while races flee pigmentation. I hear a swan, as to hear another, as our worlds clash unto a storm; this inner cadence, as featured to live, this thing come sorrows—We perish; as gifted with fervor, as lifted with anguish, as dying to redeem our souls. I loved an image, as to fiddle with illusions, while said art became a world: this passage of sighing, as deep in affections, to lose this self a bit slanted; as daughters mused, this rich rhythm, to covet this type of illustration: that earth of woes, that heaven of joys, that mixture embroidering this castle; to know for language, is to know for graces, where allusions stream through sections. It was hazel eyes, a zero waist, as gazelles lingered in space; to catch for hearts, this daily struggle, to share immortalities: this selfish heart, approved as royal, to closet so many regrets. It comes with flame, this chant to heart, as flutes take upon infinity. I dance as silence, zipping through features, ashamed to have afflicted souls; as conscience would soar, this place of devotion, at rage to have sliced our futures: this deep enchantment, where souls are dangerous, but much too religious to afflict through purpose. I’ve lied a touch, as to expose a secret, where mother was a pro. It took for anger, to evolve as softness, as coming into riches; where violets speak, as tulips chant, where roses imbue our atmospheres. I said a thing, to disturb a heart, but ours is convoluted dearly; so excuse angst, where love can’t die, while flying through traffic; this dream of souls, to purchase by pains, this Immortal Realm; as geared towards perfection, cringing our sacrifices, as to let go unto resurrections.    

Give it to Rains

I loved us, this casual affair, to announce a child. I was blank, to see patterns, concerned with our brooks; to enchant Love, cheering this instrumental, at vacancy to see your face. I think for grandmother, this first instruction, as to harbor dark secretes; as plus, grandfather, to abandon mischief, as this deep anomaly; of course, to parents, our mothers as machines, pushing for something difficult. It had to live us, this fabulous melancholy, as to ponder such craziness. I could but lie, as to claim enlove, but fiction is temporary—at least for us; this drama of tears, that extensive hurt, where territories blend with chaos. I write for freedoms, to jog for memories, to point to something afflictive: this art of avoidance, those gentle fires, that diatribe unto emotions; but it had to live, this frequent adventure, as to associate traumas; where hell advances, to alter thoughts, while souls cleave to something illusive; to see addiction, while holding through cries, this one bent towards sacrifice. I thought to speak, peering at grandmothers, aware that love is foreign: this christic slate, as boiling noodles, while appearing for perfection; but more to us, streaming confusion, as filled with hatred. Is it wealth, this tour of brains, to dismiss a world of pains? I ask for curious, to see such this likeness, as if art was merely for our seed; this frantic anguish, where tears are inverted, those opposites that attracted dearly. I should but plead, as if wrong with us, as times morph into resentments; but days are young, to await this sun, where this moon is a bit moonish. I laugh to perish, this inner sickness, as prying for falls of grandeur; to think as others, this son as me, where mother hast to forsaken love. It couldn’t be real—this sexual escort, while condemning a theologian; but this is confusion, this world of prayers, as to witness a hungry daughter; this vest of colors, as wheels of motion, while friends stand alerted. I’m more for years, as seeking this promise, while passions lure this grand piano; to sing of riches, as pagan’s would cry, where music becomes this illusive memory. It couldn’t be life, as filled with turmoil, a fleet of disgruntle lovers; to feature innocence, where many have perished, to wonder of accountability; but this is pain, to remember such alleys, as to announce an addict’s lot. I’ll go for deeper, those tears as love, where bodies became one: that tragic hurt, alert to madness, to feel as rebuilding; to give such courage, with eyes to flourish, as to feel as a goddess. It comes this way, this addict as blind, as to finally understand addicts. It wasn’t father, as too, it wasn’t mother—that joint of sights, those lines of brains—that fever for ecstasy; but more this flavor, as running from anguish, at midst this misguided advice; to see us dying, while feeling emotions, this control that must desist. I’ll bring us near, as to watch that leap, where dignities form as snails; this curious soul, as asking for answers, where such must withstand a barrage; as time would expose, this depth of furies, where mothers are forced to articulate fires.        

Immortal Wings

Oh to avoid it, this internal feature, morphed as an economy; this graphic picture, as trauma would arise, this motion of forces; while kissed abundance, suspended from graces, while charged with mercies; this inner kingdom, to seek eternals, as whispers plague leaves; that beating of winds, as partial to sands, while oceans pour into rivers; that bank of whys, at wars with sentences, where swans await a spiritual refuge. We live at agonies, this joy for salvation, to hear us feathered in hearts; as immortal wings, too clever to see self, as too witty to escape self; this pagan rite, flickering as shadows, this man lurching towards forgiveness; as never to ask, this sitting through time, while flooding a stranger’s perch: that echo of chirps; this curious seed; this wilderness seated at carnivals; as mystic loops, to shift his soul, where swans become impatient: this terrible affection; this crucial impasse; this thing where parents perish; for it isn’t life, this sorrow of homes, this angst generated in private; to seek for closure, adrift this galaxy, as torn asunder through inquiries. We’ve cried this night, (as unaffected), while searching for kindness; this outer forest, as an inner desert, where violets mourn our coming reigns; to see confusion, while praying for peace, at wars to change dispositions: this tragic outcome, thwarted by efforts, as to incur a group of rivals. It couldn’t be life, at tears with life, as one abandoned to life; as it couldn’t be love, to efface so gently, this one that is loved. It strips a soul, this tension by force, this course of destruction; to see this face, yearning as perfection, where cryptic arts pervade senses: this causal remark, as dear to heart, where cymbals devastate our kingdoms; as wanting kindness, for giving caprice, where said caprice causes traumas; as more for riches, where science if faulted, this world filled with sophism.  (I feel you dancing, aware of rains, provoking chi: a thump this direction; a mist that direction; a tsunami at points in time; but life is mystic, as we rarely know, while I confirm to generate confidences; as centered at turns, electric as lightning, this thunder as a volt; to sing eternally, while stressing facts, this inner existential; where arts are chaotic, as time in thoughts, while most are running towards wisdom. We must forgive, as therapy demands, while maintaining a distance from pains; as more to dissect, as more to exploit, as a vehicle for aiding others; this midnight blue, as casual greens, to envelope in jasper dreams. I love you more, as a daughter to rites, where none may trespass: this is our Soul, these immortal wings, streaming as rain invades our spirits; this miracle voice, your choice of styles, to pull from multiple disciplines; as pure in spirit, while murky at gardens, as to live forever this soul; in as much, to gain, by living good manners, standing at this portico; where riches shall come, while a soul is clear, this place of building strengths; to have for friends, this want to succeed, where others may grow a bit envious; but more to love, where grains are colors, as to permeate our textures: this inner omen; that graphic experience; this reason to chase fire).        

Fraught in Motion

To tell our story, this marvelous travesty, as penance to purgatory; this mystic soul, this Protestant aura, this angst by hoary minds; this theologian, perfected by trials, as casual as a summer gust: this fragile patience; those passive ways; that sudden affection.  We shift through times, that suffrage of souls, kneeling at our vestibule—that inner hallway, our walls as filthy, fraught by carnage and prayers; this invisible texture, as confused to live, with smiles that cry of afflictions.  Oh our versicle; and oh our auras; and oh our ghosts; and oh our Christ; and oh our Love; and oh our deaths; to find You there, cringing such folly, at tears this near perfection; as claimed our souls, that suffrage of souls, as pure salvation; that outer economy, our Communion of Saints, our militant souls; that inner militia, this eclectic chase, as threading vibrations; this undulation, while dead to life, as living that sudden explosion; this spirit of guts, to hear her hunches, as something so nonchalant.  To tell that story, seated at a table, or a couch, or this chair of wilderness; to see Your face, beaming with ecstasy, as a sojourner of edification; this crying seed, as mis-adjusted, too powerful for converse: this waking Passion, as apophatic, drawn out as cataphatic—this sainted theologian, as running through mid-waves, at chase this cave, to find but cloth this sermon; while souls flourish, our mystic hearts—long overdue as flaming—that crying lark, or more this phoenix, as more this witty dove: our search for land, that rancorous odor, that issue of grieving; to come to terms, those proofs for Love, by nothing greater than that thought!  We die to live; and live to die; this casual confession; where hell inverts, this apparition, as eyes cursed to open—this flaming Love, this inner Ghost, this wickedness afforded high places; as captured this Soul, a soul-less entity, as we would ever know; for Us was imaged, as Us was touched, while Us are fraught in motion.

Garden Shadows

It lives internally, this calling breath, this intuition; as less to facts, this inner grimace, as running through velvet meadows; to cry this ark, seeking for bawling, this magnet heart. I saw us crawling, while forked at roads, enduring this twilight; to sing of mercy, as changed in titles, this forest of prayers. I loved as mental, this recognition, while distant as seas; this perfect effusion, prior to chaos, where mothers agree to pardon. I can’t forsake, this wind immortal, while seasoned a digestive spirit; where souls are tugged, as time to futures, this pendulum seeping into brains.  I fathom loss, this inner cross, trickling into whirlwinds; as born again, while fevered to exist—this bliss as kissed in seconds: that fume of love; that fragrance of actions; where souls resurrect.  We have to live, as pulled asunder, feeling through introspection: this lively art; this perfect soul; as steeped in Zen traditions; where passion is law, this thing of nuisance, as to shift to change pursuits: this welcomed voice, as deep meditation, to know by sights this wealth of truths; or more experience, as never to speak—of chimes seeping into legends.  It had to live us, this fabulous exchange, while terrified deeply; to have such feelings, this incorrigible love, as egregious as Job’s sin; to die perfection, as grinning in woes, to find for days a slight injustice: this mark of targets, as swollen with pride, where earth affects a sullen thought: this crime of ways, as distant to touch, where something screeches internally; but more the esoteric, this vest of heartbeats—those drums as tribal as forgiveness; to see for stars, this blind confusion, as creeping near flames; to die so young, an addict by grades, flickering for falling into mischief.  We must suffuse, this wave of grandeur, peering at God’s jurisdiction; while owls are weary, peeking at daylight, at tears to fathom our nightfall; this marvelous soul, a bit psychotic, fleeing through depressions; as feeling heavy, despite those rubies, where curiosity plagues contentions.  I loved a choice, trekking through traffic, where life becomes cosmic: this deep incision, as painted in smoke—our years as torrent volcanoes.  I drift this return, as feeling emotions, this mind as strong as tenets; to move a country, while gripping a finger—this baby a grown woman.  It could be ours, this welkin sin, where others linger in silence; or it could be ours, a house of children, as we flurry in guilt: this marvel of days; this wretched night; those graves haunting our attics; but what to pains, this deep attachment, where our souls gravitate—this mission of arts, as carted in woes, while cuffs abandon our futures; for this is life, these links within, to know a soothing voice; that body of tattoos, as literal agendas, speeding through mother’s addictions: this crime of tears, too heavy to confess, where love writhes in agonies; but this is life, a child and wife, searching for falling into Yoga: this powerful force; as claiming eternal; where souls forge islands: that electric arc; while filtered in grays; as sought for science this love.  I wanted more, aside for education, to race by feelings this captivation; as charged to live, while dying in parts, to cook for adventures; this gravid feeling, at peace with patience, while time proves its curse.    

Mystic Swans

I’m tipsy, Love; as to ponder us, Love; flaming for falling into a barrow, Love. I know pain; introduced so early; as to chisel perfection; this elusive grandeur, taken by force, this kiss as a whistle; to die your mother, as to live your mother, while catering sorrows; this beige lightning, as in-between, to court such darkness. I used to perish, this thing of reasons, to perish as thunder; this casual affair, as taken lightly, where harsh realities cornered sins. I know a prayer, as shared in minds, to fight with deaths this wholeness: our mystic ways; our Buddhist’s claves; as paving a fortress. I felt a heart, as revving branches, to seep into roots; this soil of fools, to have such dreams, as to gaze upon stars; this scar of swans, while reaching for cygnets, this machine acting in accordance. It could be life, to live alone, while peering at existence; or it could be life, to live in crowds peering at loneness; but this is life, to do for both, accused of insanity. I heard a mother, at tears to admit, this infant attraction; where hell unleashed, as to ruin our souls, while daughters play pretend. I must advance, as borne to chaos, this mother at roots my sins; to die a psych, as for saying little, while dearly methodical. It should be death, this refusing aura, as pelted through rivalries; to claim his part, as stout a soldier, falling through flame this woman. I love us singing, where songs are unheard, this voice chasing through meadows; to ask of Eve, this indomitable force, those ties that led to nakedness. It must be us, leading into dungeons, where fathers held there issue’s hand; this long goodbye, as accused of hell, while mothers insist on innocence; but more to realities, shifting as for building, leading into glory: this erratic grin, as seasoned through tortures, while fathers swim through sulfur: this magnet heart, as sparked to sins, at reach this therapy; to seek a portrait, as perfected in images, where we live this caption: this wonderful dream, while revved through raja, this future announced to students: our partial ties, as fragile ways, while adoring our mutual love. It takes for time, where hell ensued, while mothers played pretend; to ignore aches, while courting pleasures, to see a hint as something keen; this cold adventure, an addict as a mentor, guiding through error those opinions. It takes for studies, as bent towards truths else, hell is a kidney. I love our song, as reaching in futures, to renounce a fleet of dogmas; where love is life, as life is reality, where hearts thump to music.   

We Ignite through Cadence

Fingertips cry, an immortal art, yearning for something static; as telic as pain, this justice of fools, where families suffer. But joy merges, greeting our gusts, as fevered as amusements; as such calmness, this electric current, morphing into holiness; those bashful eyes, that modest disposition, that contradiction of countenance; as floating freely, such immortal freedom, as sudden as it came; to read mechanics, to feel this person, or a group of legends. I search nightly, to find this face, courted by invisibility; this storm of fires, by ache this person, as seeking closure. I imagine thoughts, this inner altering, something that Conscious taught; where flame is purpose, as daughters examine, this field of feelings: as raw as almonds; as sweet as nectar; or more this iron of wills; to flee as casual, while arriving as emphatic, where streams connect persons; this rich enchanting, this cadence of richness, this inner person as us. There’s a thin line, where Reason is won, as poignant as running through deserts. I search daily, reaching for lights, as to find us dancing immortal. I heard a volt, as to imagine this person, while to hear another volt: I sought an image, as to feel this person, while sudden to surge that realm; where words are vague, to capture but meters, flowing into reeling arcs; where banshees rattle—our inner attics, where bars prohibit intimacy; this subtle design, to catch it by grace, (We rarely befriend our minds); this deep paradox, where sages churn, by art this fiat. I sigh, while musing violets, aware of this inner overseer; that thinking being, as absorbing experience, while filtering through intakes: that warm knowledge; that reaching wisdom; that ability to guide a volt. We seem oblivious, to this working art, where energies work through brains; that grand tsunami; that midst of rhythms; those ramped spears; as cheering through time, to ignite a holy flame, where breathing becomes infused. We feel it reaching, this series of persons, while placing ladders in pits; to waltz with graves, our faces to castles, where love is dynamics: this diamond brain, as befriended by spirits, while friendship is mischief: to sing in silence, this inner harmonica, where time speaks of destinies; that unraveled passion, seeping into wallpaper, alive in seconds.  

Volition, Plus, an Immortal Chase

We looked for you, that inward yawning, a bit explosive; to seek for thoughts, something unphysical, yearning immortality; to see your eyes, as bent to madness, but ever that composer; this morning liquor, that fatal grin, this spirit as protrusive; to live your life, this fugitive of justice, prone to these sights; as dying forever, where ever would pause, those laws a mother’s child. I feel immortal, as to tell a psych, where hells would venture insanities; to crawl for rites, as infused with powers—our craving reaching our spouses; this silent language, as charged for days, this hypomania; as if it was, this casual love, where a daughter wasn’t born; to hate his face, while loving this child, this deep confliction; while weary that art, an addict in a cave, this functional behavior; to curse for pleasure, a bit alarming, for we sought a different world; where pagans glisten, as Jews flourish, while we ponder scriptures; this magnet light, that art for green eyes, those hazel furies; where love would carry, if said was alive, to remember our roots of hard times; as broken to fathom, this wake of rhythms, sheered by inhibitions. I loved a patient—this run of society, to ponder it isn’t dung; while grooving electric, this life affair, to awaken to a stranger. It couldn’t be love, this type for passion, where some have married to such pleasure. I faint to pause, glaring into futures, afraid to admit, “It’s us”; this lake of tortures, this powerful volt, as to alert an inner Ghost; to see for fortune, this mobile flame, to flicker as terror reaches earth; this inner cave, those shadowed events—that sign that came at unawares; where bodies gathered, as plain insanities, as ghosts filtered our horizons. I heard a cygnet, as to reach a psych, this art by chance curiosity; indeed, with grief, as Fed trespasses, where eyes have never seen divinities. It could be paths, this gland within, as to sort by mystics this fatal grin; or more to madness, this sudden adventure, as striking at something cultic: this arctic soul, scrolling through graves, as afraid to mention the esoteric; where psychs would dwell, compelled to reverse, those hands that stream cultic lots. Oh for love, this wild dimension, to catapult a tsunami; as led to vices, these crises of souls, where portraits become illusions; as never to die, immortalized in ink, as found our tears in blood; where features perish, as to come to life, while mothers tighten the noose. I must retreat, as saying nothing, where hearts floor existence. 

Images Become Images, As We Morph

Our winds are howling, as I ponder articles, this omission of woes; peering at pictures, this shelter of brains, internally loquacious. I considered love; that needs for presence, while illusions run ramped; where daughters wrestle, to figure our souls, this talkative havoc; as crossed with treasures, while arched through lightning, reaching this murky contention. It sounds vague, stepping through sludge, at tears this psych; or more this life, our beating drums, trespassing lagoons; this puzzle of ventures, to see those eyes, sipping mahogany wines: this warm feeling, while charged in spirits—our stomachs enduring existence: this scripture of times, that mature outlook, as to rarely like ourselves; to see it early, this needs for therapy, while plunging our fuses. We touch it briefly, our animal blessings—this ability to reason through trials; that mirror’s hatred, this saboteur nature, or our silence morphing into rashes. We learn to let go, often forced to do such, as our minds endure an overthrow: this radical shift, as horses to winds, galloping for triumphs: this miracle woman, as to never know it, while chilly through valleys our nights; to invade self, listening to homes, those creaking elements; that buoyant imagination, as tiptoeing legacies, this man at tears to confess—this disconnection, with something internal, as to write it off as illness. It seems too simple, as to forget that smile, while racing towards proprieties.  I heard a phantom, those lakes those mountains—that tent midair to suffer: our ways as blizzards, to offset securities, to dangle by particles of dust; this return to soil, while living immortal—this chime by waves those hearts. I feel a shift, churning reality, that leaping music; as reading symbols, or determining signs, while looking this human maze. I see an aura, afloat our third eye, albeit, together, a bit sad; for songs are drifting, our minds on repeat, a bit suspicious of love; as if an image, is sorely connected, where links are made of hay; this visage of terrors—our days at wars, if but to believe in something perfect: this timid goodbye, those longing arts, our souls inverted. We crave a chance, to lose for interests, congested by particular fires: this inner catapult, while lurching forward, this passion of poets; to need our seconds, while retreating dearly, at affections those immortal ideals; to capture while fleeing, this muse of minds, a casualty to mirrors.   

Back to Back Deserts

Magenta souls; mauve ideals; our aches as courted by graces: as love would taunt, such lively souls, at peace with tears majestic. He loved by mystery, this cadence of times, as rhythmic as engulfing; to scorch that heart, trickling turquoise, this picture of violets; to imagine fiction, to suggest as love, something poetic as neighboring cinemas: this bright illusion, centered in chaos, to die for such justice: this pale grey; or mahogany armoires; filled with images. He cried as wilderness, this immovable feeling, while seated at destiny’s trestle: that type of ignorance, as legendary tales, where years scorn imprints; this lavish love, as dying forever, as nauseated souls; this cold existence, at peace with sorrows, as if this majestic stream; to see that smile, hampered by addictions—this type of melancholy; to live as phantoms, for unseen dearly, as a bit frightening: this poignant scar; some type of anger; this Tai Chi bliss; as moving forever, seeping into hearts, healing while suffering. He pictured that name, that mental portrait, too young to love our beasts: that magnet illness; those distant encounters; this wisdom as intuition; as loving regardless, this passion as friction, this struggle for balance: this impartial world, so small our vacuum, as to define existence: our Colossian dreams; as riven through us; afraid to touch what he loved: this casual fear; those awkward gestures; that instance of becoming close; to consider each thought, as thinking to speak, where said love cares for each suggestion; this place of minds, touching Taekwondo, embedded in our weary streams; this heart of passions, while damn near listless, taking as magic this bliss. He knew to remember, this soul of souls, while shimmying such emotions; that must escape, while held so dear, to miss that part of life: that illusive dream, those casual pills, that balance that proves unstable; as not for death, but this kef of deaths, where something eats at daydreams; to avoid that passage, as to rummage a credenza, pulling out portraits pictured in prose; this examined sin, where souls would bend—this weather of brains: to see for madness, this majestic love—our deserts in cages; as trekking back to back, attempting to face forward, while pressured through fears; this lavish attraction, but held as hostage, this fever flickering as flame; to move through sludge, weary of adventure, wrestling with private stars: forever a taunt; as ever for bliss; this bale of cardboard.   

Chasing Truths

We need adventure, through valleys for truths—this endless search: to chase phantoms, alert to nuances, that feeling through correlations; as born fumbling, seeking this country, while driven for purpose. We know delusions, to pardon our souls, a bit weary of this enterprise; where knowledge inverts, as becoming spiritual, to languish at times through distress: those apparitions, flinging furniture, to feel something otherworldly—as losing time, to impart a ruby—so many years at thoughts. We live illusions, those partial realities, while misconstrued: that round of torments, seeing without speaking, to settle for private thoughts; that fear of nature, abandoned to meadows, at converse with owls; this wooing of chaos, this friend of literature, this want for correlations: that two plus two; that square circle; that impossible voyage; to see as sages, this slanted alley, as brains lose to gain those subtle insights. Particles become a fortress—this justification, for journeying into forests at flames through meditation; to sense distraction, our minds at tensions, while pursuing impossible huts: this sought after challenge, defeated at turns, while angles lose their roots; to become ingenious, aside from breathing—our hearts wild through adventures; while shaping comforts, this immortal chase, to vanish with days those journeys; as seeking without targets, this mystery of entities, while chiseling correlations: that inner trombone, resounding through galaxies, where truths sprinkle pebbles. At nights this rising, this moon of invites, where subtle minds gaze into histories: that telic art, that purposed shadow, that room as mere a table; to wrestle with form, or to examine self, while correlations become this high road; this place of scholars, or this young savant, or more, this aged seer; where truths are discovered, beginning with sciences, as one is chased by phantoms; those sacred times, where reality changed, as to introduce something elusive; this space of souls, that eternal pace, to experience nuances through spacial features: at woes to capture—this mystic device, while gathering inner proves: that languid speech; that trodden trail; that life he didn’t choose.    

Swans Have Intuition

Shall we journey, Love—that last hour, as adrift through eternity; to change a thought, where love was vivid, as tiles were unattended. We’re looking at greens and ham hocks and colors and visions, peering into something actual; this type of gumbo, our mixture of meats, permeated with onions; for a swan is near, feeling accuracies, flaming through territories: this fusion of souls, this late grandparent, our slides into purgatory; to read for saints, as gifted to truths, while life was worshiped. We shared a bagel, this cream-cheese of lives, as pure as mother’s kiss; to fly to anger, for one was lost, while another pined at windows; this breath of chaos, this fission of parts, this type of broadcasting; to pet a cougar, or jar a firefly, while to chase a coyote—as lost, Love, attempting to glamorize pain, where said absence has more effects. I died a fire, this electric child, to wrestle an alligator; as pining forgiveness, for something so vague, as to admit this flagrant passion: our crawling elves, that session of selves, cringing as flying into help; to claim this vest, as something therapeutic, as faltering at answers: this wealth of threshes, this whip of slaves, this casual hell-tension. It had to breathe life, this feral woman, while hungering for adventures. It’s a woman’s life, at odds with men, for women float through dimensions; as born to live, while challenged to survive, this cross by nature our clashing. I’m fettled as frantic, gripping at bears, arranged as so to perish; but a daughter came, as to clear confusion, while mother knitted a parachute; to love us more, as fleeing through high seas, as casual as an aunts’ tears; where love is brilliance, this type of Bald Eagle, a snail to a crow—to feature dynamics, this daughter as angel, fragile at turns to live; that captive heartbeat, as leaping through waves, while to feel a tsunami. We crave results, this moment in passing, while effects plague our memories: that time is class, that school carnival, that second mother was aloof; to sin by nature, this sought insanity, where love dangled upon fragile wires—as deeply felt, where earth was shallow, to have died that moment of fraternal kisses.  I must to shift, leering at shadows, as four in one person; this thing of lightning, this signature scar, this beige in-between; to think as science, why to love as priests, where contradictions ensue; this kef of diamonds, as broken in pieces, to chisel a hardcore reduction.  I love us more, athirst this timid admission, as thus to perish thrice: at core a soldier, at heart a warrior, at mind a man searching for love; to find this kiss, as bent on prose, to avoid that rich encasement; where women soar, as feeling comforts, while men advert.       

Firewood

Burning like firewood

is our heartsore:

we feel misunderstood.

Burning like firewood

in fields of wildwood

is our tragedy forevermore.

Burning like firewood

is our heart’s core.

I Never Met Us, While Tugging Us

I feel you thinking, but what for havoc, this casual dance; to see us dying, our worlds at deaths, this fiction becoming lights. I heard a voice, this silent whisper, to ask for repeats: I saw a vision, this petite woman, featured as half a body; to die my nights, aloof to life, as piecing this bridge to torments. I must confess—this wealth of thoughts, despite this turn for breaths; that lenient venture, to have perished that love, where ours lingers in vagueness; to live this excursion, peering at beige ducks, flipping branches with squirrels. I loved a feeling, as rooted in senses, this empirical nightmare; where daughters muse, while sons cry, as to have frightened mothers. We live aloofly, this casual observance, to have wants denied there breadth. It could be light, but days are wholesome, to have explained this chain of events; so lust to proprieties, as hell to fancies, while fathers praise our resilience: this force of pits, cringing for falling, while others praise our inheritance; this dung of feelings, to want for joys, where said glee would alter with time. I must advance, as feeling this soul, a bit too cold for retreats.  We venture torments, at once a flame, feathered through adversities; this mulatto soul, this caustic tongue, as our nights plague eternity. I cried an ocean, as to feel a river, where lakes spoke of wisdom; to see this flight, as purposed to perish, those eyes I’ll never see; but this is prose, this pain of glory, as to arrive painting Jesus; this Hebrew soul, disguised in blues, where love would break our cultures. Its pagan chaos, as moral friction, our ethics forbidden this future; so more to words, curbing insanities, while authors cringe our survival. I loved an image, this thing of mania, to see something so innocent; this fever of lights, as a bit intolerant, but too hectic to break a soul. It comes with arts, those colorful hips, to chisel with time this perfection. I must advance, to know this heart, while seated in hell’s kitchen.  I disappear—this vest of living, while daughters practice with trinkets: this powerful soul, at woes with souls, but gravid in mysticism; to vanish as gone, those piercing eyes, that countenance as mother glares. I invest in us, this feeling eternal, to bring to light this silent touch; where prose would soar, as underdeveloped, while time would chisel a sage: this rapture of pains, engrained in hearts, to feel that sudden thump; where fathers laugh, as to know for daughters, this passion indomitable. I shall retreat, as feeling happy, to have conveyed an inner sensation; this place of tragedy, to see that face, this image adverse to nonsense; to sculpture our ways, as filled with action, as she sat alone this crowded circus.  

We Crawled Our Pit

The deeper our thoughts, the richer our requirements!  I’m chipping at soot, drinking smaze, alarmed at feelings; to have this rain, or even this sorrow, while adrift those medias; this florid pain, that gravel of invites, this world suspicious of nuances; where hell was culture, that dying excitement, as challenged to become this figure.  Have we touched it; that steep existential, steering insanity; as stirred to exist, pleading with children, waxing as to die—this floret calm, unraveled deeply, a psych too skilled for death; that sky-board art, those crafts by pash, this maze his death I live!  It had to be us, this sullen pair, at kef this arrival as sober; to live assaulted, peering at that epithet, at shames to cross Buddha’s river.  I felt abashed, this inner dogmatic, preaching at a sodden soul; this root by aunties, as casual friction, where cousins cringe our departure.  I’m feeling low, this space of unknowing, at membrance this delicate lotus; to conjure that name, this four part converse, as our hearts loom in victories; as dead to live, this repeated schedule, at wars to awaken; that delicate chaos, informing our breaths, where mothers cleave to delicacies.  I had to die, in order to exist, as life proves as novelties; this inkling of joys, to repeat our contracts, where unsaid ink becomes aloof.   I invested in love, too young for love, where love would glow with time. We dined forever, as a bit mundane, as she needed adventure; this daily near death, as excited to perish, while we fell apart; to rise come morning, this repeated cycle, invested come death in passion.  I fell aloof, as cleaving concrete, where Love sought adventures.  I’m feeling nostalgic, screeching this chalkboard, seated at our teacher’s desk; this fragile power, as strong adversities, lurking in segments our thoughts; to come to terms, while sipping coke, as to have rearranged furniture.  Our weeks are calling, this place of passions, to avoid feeling beyond seconds; this failed attempt, while gripping features, at love that hour of tyranny; where ashes linger, as to form a verb, while liquor has sat a millennium; this partial fool, at eyes to perish, gripping for clawing at insanity.  I’ve loved a swan, while to loathe a dove, as to conjure this feeling of inadequacies; as times were alive, where I couldn’t prevail, as to lose something that had lost itself.  I’m breaking light, infused with traumas, while thinking of this force; where hell is passing, as heaven is living, where both are deemed as fiction. 

Our Flame Dismissed Eternity, as Time would Yell

It takes as fortune, this mulatto force, as cursed as blessed—where sections churn, this wealth of woes, to originate as a person; this sense of glory, those days as tortured, while feigning wellness our races. It must for darkness, this beautiful skin, this shadow by lights our privilege; to die eternal, while resurrecting, feeling this force of passions. I lost a swan, while crossing cultures, to realize this deep schism; to love his own, while avoiding racism, to judge one by the many; as opposed to cursing life, by experience of one, where the many are rightly an adventure. I’ve lived broken, to sense wholeness, while chasing this turquoise moon: this vivid affection, while legs assert passions, where arms were lacking in reach; this velvet sun, cringing disasters, where hell was nursing its son; this rich embrace, cased in darkness, where fireballs erupted a mansion. It had to live us, this forest of thoughts, while tender that admission: as homespun, this win of flares, to kiss by distance this chi. I love a vision, as spoken with crimes, this place in souls a locomotive; to change as treasured, this wave of violence, where souls crumble in awareness; that short hello, those shards of winds, while one journeys into a new love; this face of how, but a day alone, where that outcome became another’s chaos. I dig eternal, at breakage with lights, where love was convenient; as opposed to Lotusland, this feeling of fools, as to awaken seeking this love. I’ve broken with breaths, to arrive this fire, as to hell with redeeming demons; where love was mystic, this miss-advice, while Love sought its next adventure. I’m deep at needs, to feel this human, if but to walk away; where heaven would shine, as enlove with breaths, this kef of disappointments. Our misery kills, this pool of feelings, while we admire this fading episode; whereat, are castles, shattered by actions, where she never loved. It was but a fad, this garbage of smiles, while peering at neighbors; but hell to fashion, this man of tears, alive that breaking moment. I must decrease, as sentenced to die, where love is too short; for ours was glory, that fantastic womb, those cheerleading eyes; to live with grace, as filled by secrets, at tears to abuse our mother’s ideals; for love’s immortal, a father to cringe, to know for so many suitors. It had to live freely, this writhing art, where souls abandon dungeons; as bent to shiver, this touch of rashness, while love could have been—this fragrant grizzle, at pistol’s amore, this face by earth a treasured train; to live with kisses, as turned to hells, this force that abolished a promised flame.   

Long Forever

It hurts like force, this spiritual wave, at forests to forget: that woman’s flesh; that welted fever; this weal as woe; as losing our souls, this casual love, despite our feral wings; where love was rapture, as never before, while soon to lose luster. I garner sins, winded for abuses, fleeing this den of cobras; to perish your heart, this fabulous terror, while barely to breathe: at woes with fiction; at tears with truths; whereas, life abandons our cooing fools. It was lights our death, this kef by liquor, while seduction devastated senses: this demonic pain, as loud as ecstasy, where to ruin an innocent soul; that child within, screaming for clearance, while ruptured through passions; to see his face, or to hear his voice, this child gazing at Cleopatra: this dying artist, reeling by souls, this call for compassion; to die by nights, rising at morning, this pride to have loved destruction. It kills as breath, this myrtle tree ritual, to find as Solomon our deaths: as electric sins, raving through rites, as seldom concerned with image: such jasmine legs, unto jasper wombs, a bit emphatic over turquoise eyes; to live our ways, as crazed as madmen, gnawing while fluids trickle; this living poet, at tears to obey, this longing ache; as everlasting, this imperfect strength, searching our indefinable. I must advance, as sharing love, to have immortal seconds; this painless pain, this melodious decoration—where hell would die, to touch such eyes, as entering to retreat at climax; this web of hearts, this pagan’s lust, as such irrational madness; as haunting ashes, this nectar of Gotham, this gothic slavery; to perish rhapsody, at rapture our woes, a bit too gorgeous to commit: that disadvantage; that open agenda; this man by ways his advances; to know defeat, while addicted to silence, as tugging a string-less violin. I die to advance, a man unadvised, longing for this woman’s confirmation; if but to live, as to accomplish lust, while stranded near something unfaithful; this terrible disease, as belonging to souls, as committed dearly to competition. It had to feel life, these loins of fools, this stampede of deadlines; where sudden it arose, this deep attachment, where said fool fled for safety.      

Spoke to an Elf

I felt through kindness, this exotic woman, as fragile that steel of love; where purple is fashion, our morning of errands, at home sipping glory. I knew for wild, adrift through twilights, freezing a rose; this cold despair, at layers with peace, at comforts for war; this mix of moods, a tad high near depression, as lavish as plush affairs. I totter more, at grave confessions, this daughter dying for sins; to have a feeling, as killing souls, to kiss elongated necks; this mischief of miles, falling into torments, this fabulous fantasy. I must for balance, to realize death, this yearly adventure; to braid a sphinx, as placed in baskets, to arrive a sore for affections. I crave us more, this thing of fools, where love isn’t up for auction: that patient nowhere, while love is breathing, to cross paths with ecstasy; that feeling of hearts, that noon-ish ritual, those bars carving sanity. I wrote a song, to perish lyrics, our hearts a year a second; as to pardon sensations, while gripping realities, at war to confess attractions: this well of days, as crazed as sanities, to ingest a bit of passion; where soon would die, while later would cringe, as to confess this never-land. I know for broken, piecing meals, while our freezers our dying from thirst: this casual pain, to morph electric, where a city is cast under spells; this inner wealth, acquired through sorrows, to bless a newborn seed: this powerful child, to cinch a family, while hells are brooding upon fires; this glacier style, forbidden from dying, while infusing a dream; where soldiers crave, while abiding to merits, this torture by death our rages. It had to see love, this feral baptism, while carved from slumber; where mothers dwell, as deeply above, peering at a list of whys. I know this name, to stumble conjecture, at tears to realize confusion; this beautiful agony, this gorgeous weed, our magnificent hell-cast; where love is rich, while nights are beige, as pale this tragedy; to dip a leaf, in golden liquids, sipping for frowning upon our destiny; that cry of wolves, as electric fuses, while we communicate through chi; this yearly adventure, to dance eternal, while our napes cringe allusions. I held a parrot, as to teach this name, while art fell for glory: this brackish woman, as seated in brains, this fusion of times our disasters.  I was so young, peering at futures, abrasive concerning love; this treasured sensation, this canvas of souls, this woman by time a confusion; where hell would live, as grieved through chimes, our days at breaths this measure; to see us in minutes, as attracted to pains, while neighbors died our aloofness; to fashion eternities, where love would blossom, as found in cultures our myth. I loved a falcon, this joyless feather, while love feigned happiness. We died our voices, while carrying our gods, to adventure through paths our mixtures: this tender soul, as borne to chaos, while such a lavish beauty. I took to silence, this vest of fear, where dynamics spoke to boldness: this furious man, as held that thigh, if but a dream this excursion. I hearted a star, to engrave this aim, where love walked a distant desert. It took for time, to evade this feeling, at love this art of dying.   

The Rose Didn’t Blossom

It feels heavy, that race of storms, so enchanted by thoughts; to monitor feelings, as chased by logic, this reason for dying. I loved an image, with little for substance, this grave invention; to have that trauma, this pushing of principles, as alert to what could be; this powerful glove, as seen for evidence, this casual nonchalance; where hells are vivid, this turn of woes, as clashing with morals. I know our hearts, bent on ethics, cleaving to our nucleus; to stand a distance, to listen to wind-chimes, while cleaving to adventures; those ways of converse, pacing living-room flooring, scratching at an unplaced pimple; to rev a future, this subtle enchant, while focused on preserving home. It had to come, this way with love, as if our hearts are affected; this magical lamp, placed in infinity, as missing this what of ifs. I heard a song, this melic rage, as to have drifted in time; that unit of passions, where loft was days, this inner séance. I’ve crawled eternity, caressing curtains, pleading each pleat; that born hurt, fleeing for flying, while God stood in stillness; this night of seaweed, this indelible attraction, while loving this seated woman; to break with times, as cleaving to joys, this place our art as fires. I remember disdain, this growth for souls, to reckon that grieving advancement; where opposites break currents, while familiarity bleeds, as given that something sacred. It had to live life, this misguided passion, where hell broke for courses; this dead but alive, that disenchant, while staring into color: this vacant lot, that soothing ache, to find comfort in something forbidden. We long this nocturne, stationed in gravity, this piece by marks a misprint; where death would grow, as life would fade, while sudden this parade of passions; as overwhelming, where pain would loom, this favor I need; as grieved in angst, that iron collar, as tears for our fortress. I had to retreat, if merely for mercy, to grant it to self: this lively form; that grave invention; that moment it came to fruition; while arts would pass, as time would venture, as pardoned for a major mishap. It comes to terms, this relic of scars, that history of mistreats; this fervid feeling, as killing his soul, where converse is a wish; so ore to dying, as living in rites, while love is major this misprint.