So many Years/So many Rooms

Oh for mercy—this terrible feature, as terrifying as egregious; where eyes infuse, buried in nuance, peering for seeing this travesty: our crying hearts, longing eternal, to find for shelter that terror; as sighted winds, or frigid wings, gazing at love—immortal; that silent song, as melic as meters, captured—adrift through graves. We die this way, a caveat for souls, where aches fail to instruct: this furious estate, sanctioned in traumas, this grieving by way those joys; wherefrom, our souls, trekking plush deserts—some type of miracle this breath; to seek by goals, that fabulous dream, seated—sipping a tepid reality; to want infusion, this room of walls, as terrorizing sanity; whereat, is unknown, this place of virtues, that sighted self at seconds.  Oh for mercy, this indebted force, steeping through marshy islands: this plush insanity, as kept a secret, where keen eyes trespass our legacies: this immortal maze, gazing at promise—this daughter as seed of prophets; where hell would rise, this bulb of mania—so many years at distance; this close proximity, while never to trust, for this is fatal breach; to admire kindly, this thing of growth, while never to dine at Denny’s.  Let us rise, graphed in tendencies, inclined to fly; while reaching brains, this morbid enclave, peering at dungeons; to love a swan, seeping into music, our symbols as signs: this frail reality, at breakage through words, these things built through fancy; to swear by heart, this thing of woes, to invest but a moment in thoughts.  Let us fly, stationed at streams, while forbidden to speak; this deep incision, by marrow to bone, alive that instance of sacrifice; where demons mock, while psychs hold court, this forte of dementia.  Let us prophesy, stranded at mercy, our knees as humble as trembles: this broken fuse, our wounds as souls—this transmigration—as seated mystics, aflame our daughters, thankful for that one bliss—while living this voice, whereat, that star—our cherished motivations; to find that force, dragging our mornings, to chirp up by waves this adrenaline; that rush through time, those midnight shores, this urban legend; where mothers sing, filled with envies, to arise more a sophisticated warrior. It took for rooms, staring at thoughts, to mold such features. It took for years, at practice that death, to scold such folly; this soul of miracles, those tears of clowns, that dying magician—this inner carnival, striking through meadows, a rose to arise that death; where life was lived, this fretted beauty, as knowing days must invert: our furious rooms, our featured mirrors, our nights at vomit to achieve; but let us breathe, that thump of hearts, a bit too blessed to fail.