Where are Feelings Centered?

I’m accustomed to possession, our cloudy wilderness, steeped in feelings; whereat, are groves, sandy gardens, this plum tree of intimacies; that moment to mourn, invaded by life, as all for more gratitude; this welkin dream, that odd encounter, pleading for a second session; where birds are chirpless, sedated with awe, to envision such power. I’m accustomed to life, this wingless expansion, while sudden to elations; this grand guitar, nibbling by soundwaves, digging for reaching our souls. I imagine swans, this delicate group, performing construction; as molding moments, this mire to lights, swaying through spectrums. It had to live death, this inner invention, soggy through fog that ledger; our accounts for madness, peering fragile eyes, afraid to offset innocence; by chance we must, entrusting this force, watching for miracles: this prison of joys, cuffed to sadness, clawing by saws such bars. I’m feeling morbid, at studies this existential, weary concerning proofs; that vivid experience, as more microscopic, as souls form outwardly; whereto, are magnets, pulling as tugging, this daily advancement—to see such eyes, crying in admiration, pleading for promise; this desert of minds, to forge our woes, as un-amazed by promise; to know she would, as knowing he must, not realizing this struggle—to forge that fortress, while forgiven his soul, at measures to find her charity: something taken for granted, as expected this life, where fog is so thick her nostrils. I’m one for miracles, peering at figures, to imagine those torments—accustomed to happiness, this pendulum of times, sorting through algae this cave; while seated in hopes, to find for purpose, this one so dear to heart; as minds swell, this upwelling catastrophe, striving for strife. It’s oh so subtle, as not so subtle, to witness each emotion; while stationed alone, sipping tea, analyzing this inner cinema; that ill-gotten gain, to feel like hell, while to pinpoint an inner source. We imagine mischief, as long to study graves, at woes to picture an empty mind. I’m accustomed to tears, living through beauty, proud to have sandpapered existence; to study this soul, as calculating lives, a bit tense over mere a feeling; those sudden sparks, as sleeping in worries, concerned with something that proves untrue; or probing secrets, that guile of emotions, recognizing our outer worth: this vague enrapture, our minds as podiums, addressing an inner congregation; where days are purple, while feelings are pomegranate, as too, emotions are velvet blue; to settle at burgundy, this haggard feeling, skiing philosophies; as rooted analysis, to ponder a subject, while to apply it lives; this treasure by pains, at odds with feelings, where reality disproves emotions: our logical selves, at wars with images, vetting something improbable: that intense passing, that casual concern—those insecurities; where mothers dwell, as constant that peering, involved as life their children; those arts of times, that treasured escape, as awakened to terrors: that inner person, wreaking havoc, intensely pushing backwards; to something for comfort, that old confession, where days have merged into promise: this mirror of stars, those scars to rest, aside for memories; to have but thoughts, centered agitations, as one conflicted with cycles; this mystery of brains, by travels an art, seated at a long island; where pains are wealth, this scope of wisdom, pleading for mercy.