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.