We Ignite through Cadence

Fingertips cry, an immortal art, yearning for something static; as telic as pain, this justice of fools, where families suffer. But joy merges, greeting our gusts, as fevered as amusements; as such calmness, this electric current, morphing into holiness; those bashful eyes, that modest disposition, that contradiction of countenance; as floating freely, such immortal freedom, as sudden as it came; to read mechanics, to feel this person, or a group of legends. I search nightly, to find this face, courted by invisibility; this storm of fires, by ache this person, as seeking closure. I imagine thoughts, this inner altering, something that Conscious taught; where flame is purpose, as daughters examine, this field of feelings: as raw as almonds; as sweet as nectar; or more this iron of wills; to flee as casual, while arriving as emphatic, where streams connect persons; this rich enchanting, this cadence of richness, this inner person as us. There’s a thin line, where Reason is won, as poignant as running through deserts. I search daily, reaching for lights, as to find us dancing immortal. I heard a volt, as to imagine this person, while to hear another volt: I sought an image, as to feel this person, while sudden to surge that realm; where words are vague, to capture but meters, flowing into reeling arcs; where banshees rattle—our inner attics, where bars prohibit intimacy; this subtle design, to catch it by grace, (We rarely befriend our minds); this deep paradox, where sages churn, by art this fiat. I sigh, while musing violets, aware of this inner overseer; that thinking being, as absorbing experience, while filtering through intakes: that warm knowledge; that reaching wisdom; that ability to guide a volt. We seem oblivious, to this working art, where energies work through brains; that grand tsunami; that midst of rhythms; those ramped spears; as cheering through time, to ignite a holy flame, where breathing becomes infused. We feel it reaching, this series of persons, while placing ladders in pits; to waltz with graves, our faces to castles, where love is dynamics: this diamond brain, as befriended by spirits, while friendship is mischief: to sing in silence, this inner harmonica, where time speaks of destinies; that unraveled passion, seeping into wallpaper, alive in seconds.