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.
