We’re
treading abstracts, wafting concrete, at woes to mention names; this flavor of essence, this picture perfect volt—our
holy kinship; to find Forever, this
elusive friend, scudding as virtue,
our minds; as ever that kiss, this liquefied position, pouring into crevices:
our daily vices; that whisper we utter; those brass cymbals lurking; to invade
intestines, those cringing guts, peering at travesties: this deep affection,
those intense feelings, this mystery by charm our souls. I know for thereness, this bolt as fiction, to ask
those jeering motives; or more compassion, as seeking a voice, this thing as pure contemplation: this Zenist soul; this
mystic bracelet; that person in self as uncanny; as wanting nothing, aside communion, as wild as
energies; to sing of faculties, our passions as humans, our Aristotelian desires; to flee to fly, this inner
torpedo—this type of communication; to find it lurking, reaching into crevices,
a group of souls by trapeze—as pledging innocence,
that subtle variance, to find by fire this response: our cryptic hearts;
this mystic pleat; those folds generating sadness;
this sullen style, to languish in motion, as a furious soul; that inner
magnet, advancing emotions, filled with mid-blue-daylight; that sin by
thoughts, to rearrange thoughts, this hour to hour training. I know for whatness, where twilight is gloomy,
trekking this sphere of theologians; to see this soul, this glorious ambition, while intentions become solid;
this thing of never, aside for
communion, as one pledged to research; while drifting afar, reading through
memoirs—those private, electrical, and ecstatic streams; to find that voice, as ours peeks through silence, to
mingle myriads of feelings; this complication, as reaching our hearts, thereby,
seeping into our brains: that funeral of feelings; that rebirth of feelings;
that transformation; as alchemic purely, as treacherous dearly, as to retreat a
square—to return with vengeance, that all night séance, as provoked to seek a
secret. It takes resilience—as floating in portraits, painted as a mural our
minds: this grave adventure, a bit overwhelming, while giving but energies;
this seeking of faces, to forfeit those claims, as soaring through space: this
chase of flowers, permeated in mars, this scar by way of Neptune; as more to
life, this beating sensation, to ask for but that sensation; while tugging
cords, as reeling pollen, this thing concerning birds and bees. I sought at
first glance, this rhythm of bars, as one so close as afar dearly—while moving
walls, this pace of years, to find wisdom at ground zero.
