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.