We
stand astounded, as welkin this love, founded by soil this inverse; to die so
gently, as reversed in time, where passion killed myriads. I know for hearts,
as raving that feeling, to mesh as one in passing; this fragrant compassion, to
see us flourish, while in life so distant. It must as was, this fervent
feeling, as arising with tendons; to crawl our souls, this light of growth,
while patient to witness destruction. I probe as living, this generous love,
while torn through patience. It had to die us, as living eternal, to know for
minds over sex; this beating cymbal, as violet symbols—that arch parading its
traumas; to feel at voice, this sudden surge, where vibes construct a legacy.
(This is us, revving a generation, as two a bit too grandiose); where life is actions,
as centered in rituals, where hearts plague each cavity; this cave of fools,
practiced as saints, this place in love our rhythms. I know for lightning, this
infant of souls, while heart to soul this volume; to paint with visions, this
torn affliction, wailing as joyful graves; to live that life, perfected as
sinless, that feeling so near that domain; where souls flourish, as to know
that spirit, while daughters probe sanctuaries; but more our defeat, as
searching long-range, to have this tingle of fools; to see for liquor, as
mothers perish, while art pieces together bones; this furious factor, to know
such kindness, as opposed to total disenchant. It comes with time, to observe
love, as one pays those dues of scoundrels; but this is love, as repenting
another’s sins, at waves to see clearance: that carnal touch, as sequenced in
pains, to groan in tears that vacancy. I’ve died this life, as charged in
fervor, to place such faith in love: this patient fool, to finally retrieve,
while to ponder that vocation; this rest of minds, as felt this second, as
opposed to several years. It could be life, this woman as friend, where two
debate that rising location; or it could be death, as reaching for breath, to
heave in passion this debris; as art to souls, this bone through marrow, if but
an archaic painting; to advance as sought, this passive disdain, where one
loves that daring soul; to win such favor, as touch to soul, where logic is
slung asunder!
