Volition, Plus, an Immortal Chase

We looked for you, that inward yawning, a bit explosive; to seek for thoughts, something unphysical, yearning immortality; to see your eyes, as bent to madness, but ever that composer; this morning liquor, that fatal grin, this spirit as protrusive; to live your life, this fugitive of justice, prone to these sights; as dying forever, where ever would pause, those laws a mother’s child. I feel immortal, as to tell a psych, where hells would venture insanities; to crawl for rites, as infused with powers—our craving reaching our spouses; this silent language, as charged for days, this hypomania; as if it was, this casual love, where a daughter wasn’t born; to hate his face, while loving this child, this deep confliction; while weary that art, an addict in a cave, this functional behavior; to curse for pleasure, a bit alarming, for we sought a different world; where pagans glisten, as Jews flourish, while we ponder scriptures; this magnet light, that art for green eyes, those hazel furies; where love would carry, if said was alive, to remember our roots of hard times; as broken to fathom, this wake of rhythms, sheered by inhibitions. I loved a patient—this run of society, to ponder it isn’t dung; while grooving electric, this life affair, to awaken to a stranger. It couldn’t be love, this type for passion, where some have married to such pleasure. I faint to pause, glaring into futures, afraid to admit, “It’s us”; this lake of tortures, this powerful volt, as to alert an inner Ghost; to see for fortune, this mobile flame, to flicker as terror reaches earth; this inner cave, those shadowed events—that sign that came at unawares; where bodies gathered, as plain insanities, as ghosts filtered our horizons. I heard a cygnet, as to reach a psych, this art by chance curiosity; indeed, with grief, as Fed trespasses, where eyes have never seen divinities. It could be paths, this gland within, as to sort by mystics this fatal grin; or more to madness, this sudden adventure, as striking at something cultic: this arctic soul, scrolling through graves, as afraid to mention the esoteric; where psychs would dwell, compelled to reverse, those hands that stream cultic lots. Oh for love, this wild dimension, to catapult a tsunami; as led to vices, these crises of souls, where portraits become illusions; as never to die, immortalized in ink, as found our tears in blood; where features perish, as to come to life, while mothers tighten the noose. I must retreat, as saying nothing, where hearts floor existence.