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.
