Palms of Rainbows

Where rain topples, this integral maze, thoughts are plural with thumps; to have loved dearly, our rewards for pleasures, stifled by dreams; those vivid arms, to wrestle destiny, as bawling where passion soars; that tyrannical friendship, as never to respond, saving face as mercies; to crawl forever, that inner electricity, this fuse by gurneys our minds; to drift upon petals, beads dripping our scalps, a mother’s touch in agonies; to cry by lights, this furious dream, at woes to love our seas: though hardened with time, we major at love, while compelled to season by mallets; those icy rivers, that tyrannical friendship, to position a heart lower than mud: that kindled nightmare, infused by anguish, as gentle with angst as reason; to die claiming love, this flurry of fools, where time is multiple personalities—or maybe for one, that intolerable person, bent by corners as forever right; as dying at seasons, filmed by inner motions, oblivious to mirrors—as shadowed by deaths, eating from multiple palms, fawning by favors our reflections; that twisted thought, catered by souls, while wolves scurry through living-rooms: that casual ghost, as appearing with time, as a sudden epiphany; to see our faces, melding to chaos, to polish our images.  With life this reason, our stars to tears, our journeys seeming at flights—where souls are groomed, but anxious this night, severed by a sense of justice; to watch as slipping days, melt through gravid weeks, this person wreaking havoc; as climbing fires, to find those moments, where addiction seems appealing; this ferocious flame, but days are heavy, with or without those elements.  Our wealth is friction, to purchase by chance, this liquid freedom—this tear of fiction, that cabinet of woes, this place by hearts our misprints; as sitting at waves, to partake of feelings, this felt distraction; to peer at motions, while pondering persons, where nothing is like freedom: that glorious second, pulled back to earth, a palm of rainbows; to imagine brains, such powerful hearts, those secrets built by powerful hearts; this thing of chi, filtered through strains, pouring into legacies: that eternal cry, by chance a fire, or more by arts; to sanction solace, that anxious soul, driven to rev a nation; as pure this motion, beating with time, this climb as awareness; to rupture a force-field, as witnessed in souls, this glory by pains humility; to stand at posts, sipping sobriety, dripping into devotion.  With love comes sorrow, those tears of pure agony, as life slips into chaos: our daily deaths, as dreaded by mirrors, this reflection a total stranger: those daggers of lights, piecing as piercing spirits, this measure by chance our souls; to center but fragments, racing in stillness, floating to this space in us; where arts would sigh, as heavy in motion, those years as motivation; to seek that face, disguised in images, this want to love eternal.