I’m Thinking, Purple

She never said, “I was wrong”: this song as soldiers. I never heard it, peering at insanities, adverse to certain behaviors. To see is to mimic; this culturing folly; where ignorance becomes a rose: this mahogany desk, this trope for pains, while seeking approvals. I found a serpent, a replica of mother, as we formed a false paradise: that kindhearted resentment; our furious lovers; our lies molding eternities—as cried that night, our daughter so young, where rain sought a silent soul. I’m with needs to live, waxing in terrors, conforming inner brains—as outward laws, this tone of Kennedy's, underlining Augustine’s cries; to see them as minor, this act of contrition, at admiration for such prose. I asked a question; to receive a lie; while a countenance fell apart. I yelled obscenities; to lose a home; where love had forsaken its ghosts. We lose so often, a bit nonchalant, to pause at witness to a pattern: that selfish self; while to ruin flesh; this ache by cries for love. I saw a pigeon, pecking at ticks, cooing for passion; I knew a friend, at needs for comfort, to receive such as becoming a thorn. She sighs at truths, as long to live deaths, refusing to alter behaviors; to come that space, as a welcomed return, where structure falls apart. I must retreat, trekking green pastures, remembering a child by palm: this fated agony; this tenor of sorrows; this woman too brave to commit to love. I must explain. It takes for courage, to avoid solace, while souls march into madness: that fume of gases; those trauma-highlights; that back alley gripping at fiction; to love that feeling, this thing of newness, while gone that second before collapse. It takes for courage, to build a river, where two cultivate eternity: that mutual cry; as seated in sanctuaries; those nights at compromise for love. I drift dimensions, this beige soul, at woes to imagine something brilliant—by faith a star, by grace a scar, by hearts an engine; where mothers died, while fathers trembled, this fraction of composer; to hold to guilt, but heavy to actions, refusing to forsake our inner torments; this child of error, rooted in chaos, while to forge normal rites. It had to live death, this chamber of mortuaries—our liturgies of travesties; where mothers lived, as one for sisterhood, plotting for planning our sister’s misery. I’ve told for skies, this wish to redeem—that haunt in one but a child; to fix our wrongs, while insulting Machiavelli, while appeasing this deep chasm; as one to love, where fidelity rules, while aching to adventure life; this bold professor; this cold psychologist; this methodical therapist; as seizing agonies, as for gripping fires, to scream concerning intrusions: those locomotives, digging for normalcy, at wakes within this tragedy. I must retreat, as borne to chaos—our families playing pretend: as time would perish; where smiles disgust; where palms bled as thrust through. I know of love, that wretched overthrow, where realities crash by colliding; where it shouldn’t be, this foreign adventure, as want to cleave to disorder; this familiar culture, as sweating from liquor, while hearts respond to psychotropics: that felt arrhythmia; this rising euphoria; that second in time those tender emotions; where essence grieves, as over-exhausted, as morning is met with tyrannies: to do it for deaths, chasing multiple seas—our brooks jotting insanities. I must retreat, while building a fortress, while praying in silence: this religious flame, this inner niece, this cousin by far an inner ghost; while love is burgundy, our rivers are red, our skies are turquoise—where demons fled, for ours was ruined, while vexing eternity; to soon return, hassled as souls, cultured by spirits; this sight of souls, striving for change, at voice an inner nightmare.