Melancholia

We season distress: a shallow thumbprint; an eager voiceprint; our souls crumbled as wads of tissue: where life is justice, some sort of fairytale, while life is chaotic—to enjoy moments, our softest voice, entwined in rapture, our course at refuge, embellished by vulnerability. We sip disturbance, some snort lines, while others ravage destinies—this courage of fools, puffing nicotine, hearted as one to speak prose: this glorious pain; that hectic fever; those years partly at rest—to defuse trauma, this search for fathers, this unhealthy relationship: those long goodbyes, while frantic for air, as purposed a butterfly: this languid style; that moment of ecstasy; to leave it all behind: that deep depression, while captured by love, as muddy eyes drip into tragedies: this nefarious dance; that perfidious whisper; as both lied to touch loins: our same destination, fraught by fancies, alert enough to sandpaper our corners; as one for rounded, while needing those lies, gazing as to suggest a need for those lies: this shallow morning; this fervid evening; this night of cocaine filled antics; where liquor drips, chanting its harassments, while smoke prints out an addict’s alphabets: this shaded tinge, provoked by control, as she moves—crawling—assertively: this broken furnace, revved while dying, some sort of ecstasy; to die that vixen, nibbling cherries, our hands screaming poison ivy. We stole from souls, embedded their flesh, broken with pain our deadly chase: a pill for a soul, to feel existence, to capture that gaze; where eyes confess, this deep enchantment—our souls enflamed with power; where poetry spoke, as choking from death, revived in eyes that over-spoke; this torn legacy, as womb to mind, or mind to groin—some sort of heaven, a woman as a priest, provoking ghosts. Our days have perished, forever this image, while gardens speak in French; this plaintiff soul, our plaintiff auras, this proud affect through pain; where years are sober, to capture nuance, this sad event; as casual friends, missing our puzzles, chiming in agony this beast: our purple scarves; our beige robes; this chain to leap by crucifix; as time would bleed, this cyan blood, changed by running.