Freedoms Abandoned/Freedoms Rendered

We’re sluggish, Love; this inner existence, those perfected powers. We’re muddy, Love; this purity of filth, that curse by gifts—as fleeing freedoms, to conjure freedoms, those vestibules of life; to know a dream, as feeling inadequate, a palm filled with seeds: that immortal dynasty, as horizons bleed, that sky to brains. We see contention, afloat, to trek a cloud, at thoughts this sullen wave; as fires dim, this cycle of Love, as decoding this flame; while arts scream, wherewith, this dream, at pains to inflect paradise: this vintage math, an outer algorithm—our equations as haywire—to die eternity, at tears eternity, to flourish eternity: that torn speculation, to envision fairies, as casting miracles—to enchant life, this turn of elves—that inner leprechaun; but more to Love—this inner wave, fleeing as flying into freedoms; to know for cadence, this inner tyranny, to discern as fire: this wealth as science; this sluggish feeling; that ruby cut from brains; to have for silence, this inner lamb, slaughtered that saw of life; to know existence, those rivers as pure, notwithstanding, muddy slides. I’m shifting feelings, a bit mawkish, those gears to hide it—at risk to perish, this impending freezer—our souls to wrestle agendas: that outer scale, as weighing eternity, by something as a second—that scurvy ceiling, as impressing sickness, those emotions by fuels. It’s less existence, as more existence, this pain we trickle; as all for love, a pack of seasons, skiing through frequencies; to chisel freedom, accustomed to freedoms, yanking at bars; this pure affliction, as realizing limits, while claiming freedoms. Its inner ontology, this ontic infliction, that ingestion of shards: those screaming particles, as piecemeal-existence, while paragons become immortal: that outer paradigm; that inner exosphere; those reasons to wrest our woes. I concern self, to feel for presence, this essence your soul; as colors to sing, where pigeons would gather, as flowers wilt by summer days: this ace of diamonds, as featured in dreams, seated at a fireplace: that melting wax; that pictured artificer; that terror of fires; to see inventions, if but for closure—such reasons we live by.   

By Love (Written to Sinead Harnett’s Song: “If You Left Me,” ft. Grades)

It hurts, our dreams; this devious voyage, as losing strength; to die gently, this inflated core, as spittle upon gold; to forsake life, as more memories, our broken glass; that table of dreams, that fantastic arch, those pains sipping, forever; this casual sphinx, to love our wires, to raft a scar. I knew a fire, through harsh delusions, as curbed inside—to fly this grace, a face to passion, this tear falling; as screaming insanity, caged at Pash, this brief earache, to hear those whispers. It’s a.m. hours, at that silent place, musing your brains; as something near, this art of fools, if but this prose: those lambent cries, that cadent flow, that spectacular treasure. We chanced love, this space within, as losing that touch; our flushed souls, stapled to madness, to hold those charms; where it could be life, this inner winter, as so cold for loneness. I never would, as thankful our dreams, to feel something absent; to love like crazy, this slow death, at breath a nightingale—or more a song-sky, that mental umbrella, to perish by waves of joy. If but tomorrow, this thing he wanted, as never to live it. It takes for marching, this mechanic fool, this quixotic adventure; to remember passion, to anger that heart, while forsaken to nightmares: that inner vampire; that scarecrow for nothing; that beige lingerie; where vultures fall, to witness softness, after years of heart-deaths. To hell for caution, to have a dream, as missing that mark; this squeaky love, enchanted by lamps, falling to skies afloat—this permanent island, as one distorted, feeding a songbird; but let it perish, this ghostly sky, as bred for this marksman; where patience is cruel, where havoc is mystic, as forsaking a part of life; as more a phoenix, this harsh flesh, this cold fate; while partial to pains, as knowing their mothers, to have become intimate; indeed, for tragic, to lose sanity, while climbing dementia; this heartsore, a nature to fear, but adrenaline to crush: that fireplace; those long discussions; to suggest those differences; as more a memory, charged by winds, our wings our expansions. I’m at life, feeling such emotions, pleasing to a dream; this fantastic legend, that outer heartbeat, that trumpet blast; to know for nothing, this mind of fools, affected by sheer presence; as it slips away, to sense for healing, tugging an old heartbeat; as losing self, to hold this ache, where Pash becomes a wilder beast: that anchor by tears; that vacuum as snug; those nights at a vibration; to lose it all, this stroke of fate, while eyes are moist: our dramatic scar, as more a friend, by which, this immortal fuel; but ever this love, as never this love, while soaring at fuses adrift our skies.       

Cathartic Release

(I filled a vase, to stumble a tuffet, to love as sighted; this dream of men, that vicious journey, as a vivid loneness); to kiss by chance, to have this second, as crucial to demons. It was ever magic, a daughter to streams, a mother to screams; as painted perfect, that aloof nature, that deep passion—while laughing this curse, afforded a miracle, to offended he wouldn’t; as doing that thing, by arts a spark, akin to naïve wishes. (I hoped to find us, eloping as christic—that sheer inflection—as churned through guts, this outer effusion, at peace to live in shadows): that wave of fools; that terrified image; that glitter drawing from waters—that inner music, that feeling for love, that time for one last chance; as if to die, ravished by life, as living that one last dream.  (I saw a swan, kayaking a wire, dipping into warm rivers; as mother cried, this transformation, aglow by wiles—as streaming afar, to pull that inner person, as alive to meet him).  It could to life, this passion of pagans, at arts to climax; to hear for love, a soul at horns, a mind at briers—to tumble as weeds, as sickle’d at roots, this forest of monsters.  I felt a spark, this inner generation, to wonder of proximities. It could be nights, to morph as sunlight, that outer association; where souls perish, as to flourish wisely—forever at pride to see it; that mystic heart, those dark demons, that mental triumph; to war again, this cycle of souls, while fevered as frantic fires—this wave of fools, damn near alive, sitting at segue sorrows; at moons to hear it, to pierce those eyes, to ask that question; but more those shadows, aflame an arc, chiseling a nightmare—as picture perfect, this vest of rubies, to culture as living forever. (I was gone, Love—alive, Love, as racing, Love; this furious feeling, at bibles for secrets, offending myriads; but never this, as ever that, this song of dungeons); to feel a heart, or more a vessel, as less illusions—those curious dreams, to channel through visions, as moving electrified—that casual ache, to remember a gesture, too clever for self—this world of passions, as graphic mystics, floored to dirt that prayer.  It could be us, a daughter to a father, a mother to a son;—as floating pigeons, to watch a tumbler, to stitch for music.       

Desert Horizon

Let it be gentle, this wailing delusion—flowers up-side-down our skies: petals mid-waves; caves afloat Olympus; our mothers sipping ginger. Let it be fire, this aching illusion, hearted by red vipers: this space in dreams—our casual screams—this purpose as features to Love; this calling miracle, as sketched invisibility, to feel by nature such distance. Let it be free, as running wildly—this naïve dream, sailing—those high seas, that waterless ocean, this place in minds as karnac; while not as vicious, but more as reason, this art as mischief ink; to paint us beige, afloat those in-betweens, as gauged a tornado; but let it be gentle, this teething chaos, as kneading perfection; where love is void, as but a casual glance, while earth is bearing witness: this glint by skies; those intrepid emotions; that wretched betrayal; whereto, are hearts, as yearning for beats, to have chosen but one love: our woes to bed; our arms to fires; our visions stippled with promises; but let it be kind, as firm compassion, while pointing at Quixote—this fabulous dreamer, while alive those tugs, as feeling in diamonds—that sluggish art, wherewith, that praise of beauty, accustomed to dying those graces. It becomes magic, where others trespass, at wants that position of gods; as given rarely, to drift upon a leaf—our linchpins embedded with names; to give us space, where thoughts are guzzled, while others secern as playing doctor. It couldn’t be gentle, this art by force, as claimed this love; where patience dies, while moons mourn, as painted to function; or build from woodblocks, this panting for a heart, where one is sprouting through affection: that living dream, too pure to be cautious, too timid to be bold; but it lives as fire, where eyes become judges, as if detached from life: this grand occurrence; to witness such treachery; where never this soul but ever that soul; this amazing music, showered emotions, treading so far away; where love is gentle, at peace to stay-away, as realizing devastation: that inner halcyon; those mauve goodbyes; that place in conscious at peace.     

There’s this place, where poetry lives, at wars with reality; or more at culture, this thin barrier, while infused by anxieties; as treated illusions, rich with tortures, composed of particles; as wanting life, this spectrum of thoughts, while eerie concerning affections; to drift afar, while reeled by nearness, this space of dementias. Its gentle travesties, or patent psychoses, as one to mention our embarrassments: this inner image, while disappointed, for a pedestal adrift our skies; as pebbles to glass, that frontal-windshield, where prose begins to evaluate—those slanted feelings, as more to sulfur—this boiling sensation; while seated low, to imagine this dream—to imagine delusion; as righted rarely, so more to beauty, while pleading mercy; at sun to life, this torn performance, weighing this misery of souls; as much he could, while losing feelings, painted analyses: this rendered loss; this space in minds; that anger to feel exploited; for colors scream, as envies wail, while tugged a gentle reed; where never our passions, this immortal pain, as realizing prerogatives: those rippled ponds; that burgundy duck; this bag of popcorn, stale; while fussing through winds, a thought to land, this earth as coursing through angers: our vile intensions, this culture of men, as filed in memories this horrible alpha.       

Captive by Arts those Features

I thought to magnet eyes, such treacherous beauty, as to pierce our souls; while distorted dearly, vying for kindness, that shift in sentiments: those beige tulips; that casual rose; those feelings congested that nightmare; to love by grays, as crazed as wildness, this image captured in tragedy; to bask in essence, projected by Neptune, falling by grace our magicians. I adore gestures—that angry physique, those tales of passions those eyes. I cried to feel it; so young at hearts; while bathed in sulfur that curse. We dined by turquoise—marooned to love—our affairs drenched in burgundy pudding: We died purple, our royal contagion, at arms those scratches that neck-bite; as jungles live, this torrid legacy, at woes to perish those eyelashes. I courted a firebird, to admire such resilience, as giving a piece of us that whirlwind: to un-polish portraits, as first impressions, while unraveled by 8a.m.; where coyotes circle, as vultures for flesh—our awakening as vicious; to tug toes, or trace tendons, while reading Buddhist’s literature: our mystic hearts, at travels through Tibet, at peace our Asiatic souls. We’ve called to skybeams, at sores our sky-dreams, cultured through arts our sky-pains; to love forever, as adjusting with time—this curious fever; as learning souls, those morbid fancies, as born to punish hearts: that flowing frequency; those silent screams; that collapse in sorrow our tranquilities. I adore firebrand, at raptures through Africa, while sealed in melodious fires: those soothing vibrations; at peeks our visions; while afloat this impartial argument; to see our faces, sketched upon skylights, where images blur into furies. We’ve loved a myth, as becoming a myth, this kiss of life adrift our kef; where tortures are gentle, at wars our minds, this furious twilight-zone: as coursing our brains; this ache to feel; while completing your thoughts; this inner arc, at search through reasons, concerned with first principles—that artsy adventure, to touch through agonies, attuned to something invisible: that waking courage; to seize for thunder; as to hunger but love.   

Symbols At Mindwaves

I’m found, Art—this zero intolerance, as so enchanting; to sing glory, at tears, that mind, abolished through cons; this land-field, as teasing souls, wrapping a church tie. I saw a serpent, those luscious hips, those perfected thighs. I retreated afar, this angry feeling, as souls intimate with wars; to carve a bullet, embedded in hearts, staring at sins; this deep expense, shifting as centipedes, as deadly as locusts; as mortals feast, adrift from self—souls cultured by demons; to admire lusts, as to shadow pains, those fallen years.  I’m seeing moods, this woodblock heart, sculpted in crimes—to feel this life, this silver vixen, adored as Taylor Swift; wherewith, are grains, this planet in Venus, this culture upon Neptune.  I’m close those loses, a vault of hard-knocks, stressing and screaming through passions: that flying dream; that welkin neck; that face sawing into mirrors; this living sentence, this chamber of drums, those pages on commonsense—while rearranged, surfing at seas, agreed to as a secret; this magic at souls, to repent as drastic—this tragic life; that theologian, a snail to pews, captive—a sense of death inside; this mystic flame, while needing more—one asearch that Faceless Scream.  I caught acrylics, to glitter our palms, this frontal devastation; as alive that night, too much his soul, to vomit his guts; where beauty called, to strangle his throat, this tower of ambitions; as long it lives, this butterfly-pain, to praise one more sin; whereto, our souls, scattered at silence, pleading forgiveness; that inner armoire, that credenza of letters, that tuffet of diamonds—to see existence, this tunnel of minds, pierced at a left ear; in-so-much, that knowledge, grieving through tenets, tugged by humanness; as scarred after sights, those pleasures to gain, as bereft with self.  Its cold that season, this autumn tear, tracing veins an auburn leaf—as cultured brownness, or midnight darkness, picking locks at Purgatory; wherefore, these arts, a song to crows, as scared those fires about ghosts; while life is joys, or more those segments—our lanterns raging; to feel that life, that interior flotation, engaged by rites that fever; whereat, that vixen, to have us but once, floored by attics.        

Ambitious Those Fires

I want it badly, that distant glory, singing, Illuminati—this gifted shift, that inner snow-fire, those worms with legs—to die your flame, buried in tendons, this screaming meadow! I know for brooks, to dig for deeper, that rare perfume: they call it rain, to see those mirrors, as crying sky-iron: that fatal fall, to tug JZ, a phoenix as a pyramid. I laughed at self, to grow in droves, to love this passion: those cryptic eyes, that Asian style, that centered insanity. I cried to God, “Believe in me,” as giving me worth; to drive this death, a soul’d black man, this outer mulatto—looking that art, to feel centipedes, this manic in black—to terrify love, to recruit a coalmine, dipping through land fields—that curious mine, to read unsaid, this panic through feds—as living shame, to know for secrets, a soldier’s death to failures: those roadblocks; to require stealth; those warriors at his guts; as dying that lose, while moving traffic, to feel this ceiling fan. I craved a soul, this hypnotic gem, while stationed in restraints; to hear, “I love you,” that outer myth, swerving through airbeams. I felt a passion, this daughter to flood, as choosing parents: that Hindu gauge; that reaming twist; as gazing at innocent eyes; to bless Beyoncè, for hidden truths, mashing through territories—to hear a voyage, this serpent’s heart, a thirst for knowledge—to master life, this cryptic agenda, this vault of literature; as more to Freud, to have studied Jung, while flooring Rogers: this misfit; that Jewish spin; those Greek tomes. I thought for Precious, to see such fires, where hell was gentle;—that soul a legend, that pain a pyre, our souls attracted to madness: that horror of tales, to feel this shift, plucking a dragonfly. I laughed to feel it, this inner notion, as if all is peaceful: I speak to secrets, to know for humans, those hearts as encrypted. It could be art: It could be us: It could be death; as taking a chance, to love but thrice, afforded this gray terror—that mystic cloth, this grieving prose, our inner leviathans. It’s cold to perish, as sensing kefs, alive that moment a tender session; to see her fracture, or see a smile, or to know for pills. We vetted storms, as playing pretend, this monster of souls—as dragged to dirt, swimming through mud, while at love this Savoir. I disappeared, those years at practice, to return filled with lightning: that gleaming aura; that shaded demon; this kingdom of blackness; to dance to courage, this swan to flourish, this mother at roses; to walk aloofly, to whittle wood, to praise near bark; this thunder’d soul, to grip a soul, as one too many lines. I’ve lost it all, with more to gain, to give us passion: this young prophet; this inner pyramid; these tats as testaments; where God heard, as flowing fire—that visitation.  (I’m more a child, stitching a wound, filled with excuses—for more that hell, those droopy eyes, that pregnant shame—engaged with trauma, eloping with rain, at woes to hear of normalcy). Our torn galaxy; that rifting mentality; this tare by shadows; to smelt a vision, this hailing gust, floating to fly!

Colored Wheels

I’ve tried this vest, dying accordingly, to love those vocals; as feeling pain, this mixture of joy, this incorrigible strength; while weighed softly, this inner yoke, to love our souls.  (I’m sad, Love—to feel, Love—a bullet, Love); this core Ghost, at motion his dreams, as seeing visions; or more that face, to maintain balance, these blurry lines—as more, a sacred scream, those warm waters, as once a homespun soul; where love broke, as seething violence, to owe so much!  I’ve died too it, this outer swamp, enlove this aim as crucial.  It was ever us, as so detached, while claiming love.  It was ever me, this sober fool, to open up through smoke; as more a dream, this fabulous love—that awesome physique.  I know us more, this pure paradox, that dire retrospection.  It could be gentle, these melic scars, as screaming our redemption; but more to music, this form of souls, this lavish insanity; to cloud his soul, a manic poet, streaming through professors: those harsh years; that inner love; this lecture bleeding; to see that face, as born to grieve, while digging through barriers.  I love an image, murky with fame—that rounded glitter; to remember illusions, to dine delusions, to return to rain.  I love these pits, as to soar so high, while affected by love: this cordial pain; that rapture flame; those tides as devastating; to produce for music, this lambent dream—content with cadent fires.  I saw a person, as more a vex, to push barriers afar: that sun as blood; that prophet as flying; that scar as mother’s remorse; to see her son, filled those tears, flexing psychotics.  It could be gentle, this lure of souls, as pure as Casanova—or more Adonis, or more Simone, or more Nietzsche.  We invest—this something of souls, pitted at a hospital; if more those dreams, shaded in unrealities, this unphysical nightmare; as love that night, as far that heart, as distant our aches.  It could be life, as Country Art, this color as Europe; or more to Yana, this pure flame, or more to Yuna, or more Badu, this fire’s tear, this inner pyre.  I cleansed us bare, at fears survival, trekking Louisiana; as less an art, as more to pain, this ore piercing flesh; where doctors cried, that dotted line, as souls screamed—“It could be us,” while brains shuttered—or more that faith in self.  I must return, as picking his battles, this man leery of wars—to see for loss, these birds to wires, this song of love; where psychs shun—that inner delusion, while painting turquoise skies.  I’m at a soul, as bold as day, to flee ulterior motives; wherewith, a scar, as forgiving nonsense, surging like vehicles: that inner man, grieving those palms, as singing to colors.  It could be life, that outer rescue, to tug at pits; this fulgent screen, that shoji heart, those casual glares; to stare us death, flexing Tai Chi, that locomotive; where minds drift, afloat those islands, peering at naked beauty; to love by lights, this furious woman, to fathom such angers; but more to passions, this inner Lexus—that pedal to concrete—as soaring wildly, this cultured menace, this manic sky.  I loved a dream, to adore a sphinx, as spacey as a lunatic; but not to violence, but more to anger, a man suffering transference; indeed, his life, some sort of caricature, this visit to Venus; to find a soul, to meet a priest, to journey through graves; this fascination, as not to court, but more to feel; this slanted heart, this sensitive soul—our moves through meadows; that pouty temper, at aims to live, to sudden upon joys.  It could be gentle, that inner woman, to see perfection; or more her soul, through sable eyes, this tragic star; to disappear, as one alive, pulling by feathers that anchor.   

Immortal Swans

It could be hearts: It could be dreams: It could be you; to sing alive, to die alive, to scream out mercy; this deep enchantment, as more his daughter, those terrified ways; as born to dregs, alive at dregs, to find these dregs; where songs arise, to outlive time, this grime to souls as lights. I see an angel, this need for love, a bit reclusive; this fulgent dream, as leasing trauma, that reaching sign; where arts splay, this play of life, those sights as dark; as love blooms, to permeate—this inner cave: as soul-minds; or sky-brains; this extracted mind-cave—as smelted spirits, afloat through gravel, this misery of lovers; to see that face, so tiny that soul, a myriad of sins. I heard sobriety, this inner chase, confronted with thoughts; to ride this wave, those ends of time, a-trek that horizon; where mother lives, as streaming through waves, this art we pursue: if days are gentle, and psychs are liquid, and crevices bleed—this immortal grind, to shine by love, to die by gurus; this infinite mystic, as born to dregs, as living that culture; whereto, your name, this small legend, striking through kingdoms; that inner professor, that gravid star, those trips to France; indeed, your mind, as born to live, a casualty of no man. I know this chi: I know this pain: I know your royalty; as plural signs, or rapid symbols, adrift an aria; where fathers chime, this inner gavel, at wants to extinguish pains. I’m more a soul, attempting greatness, to see those eyes—as to feel that arc, while to roam—this inner castle. We die this way, to live this way, splayed as young souls: it could be gentle, if not for humans, or rather, human thoughts; but more to thinking, that grueling levity, that restrictive art. I see a daughter, this loud fuse, stressed through potentials: as digging literature, extracting wisdom, while applying magic: if but to live, to share those pies, to bake those cakes; that chocolate frosting, those rainbow sprinkles, that slice to mother; or more that soul, that tiny expression, as one a soul-wind. I speak of sisters, or maybe brothers, or maybe to friends; to share infinity, or stress abilities, while streaming through channels. I’m at this wave, musing upon tigers, those embedded stripes—leaping to cheetahs, as changing spots, while immortal to dregs. We must return, to give that silence, while adrift a generation; where drums thump, and cymbals clang, where violins are discarded; this dream of souls, chasing guitars, afloat through Canada. It turns this way, as infused with languages, this Spanish love—as more to graces, our fantastic voyage, abed, stumbling through Spain; to live this life, as an academic, flying by aches this immortal wave. It should be love, as born to succeed, wrestling with ideals; but more to love, as singing forever, despite this inner sentence. I love a swan, stressed over legacies, or more, those future disciplines; to vanish a curse, at verses to exhale, while to carry this anchor; for this is art, this message screaming, this daughter musing: that mental piano, that floating trumpet, that loudness of souls; to interconnect, this flow of knowledge, to stumble this esoteric: as more a dream, to peer at mother, or shake grandma. It comes this way, those traveling years, that flight to Tibet: if but this aim, curved this life, a bit for experience: it has substance; it has conviction; it lives forever. Oh for love, as drifting through bulbs, that passion for Asia; or more this heart, beating to rhythms, evolved by fires; where fathers gather, to chat a fury, while mothers mold spells. I knew a name, to garner a soul, where love brewed a stew. It should be myth, this inner cry, but more to eternity; this immortal swan, that outer symphony, sprinkled through personality; indeed, a legend, as fueled through passion, streaming this orchestra; where pains are science, as science is love, afloat this flame; so more that inrush, and more that fire, and more those brains; in truth, those waters, as born testaments, reaching for ether: this famous expansion, this inner theosophy, that immortal Tao—as more for Zen, while surging as yogis, to morph into an individual.

Fire by Storms Those Eyes

Born to it, this loose living, this infinite sinning;—while grinning pain, as mother’s chosen, as father’s orphan;—to cry your name, sick to see you, as falling to love;—those cryptic arms, that fallen grace, our faces mourning Jesus. I need to see it, this wise soul, bathing at warm waters; that casual passion, this existential, that mortal’s test. It took life, gnawing black bars, that inner mulatto; to pray your heart, as broken in science, as holding to faith: this reason screaming, this soul grieving, our mothers passed out. I sought to feel it, this psychotic break, as seasoned in turmoil; those years to sullen, as more to patience, as asearch for Christ: this mystic blood, this cultic bread, this fever as purgatory; to pray your parts, floored through chi, associated with Buddhists. We laugh to hear it, that shallow soul, to mourn his eyes; where favors bloom, as wild roses, this inner coyote; wherewith, this grit, this courage, this infamous daughter; to raise a dream, as a symbol of Moses, that second covenant; to fix something broken, to abolish errors, where passion became universal. Back to arts, your cryptic eyes, as brown as bloody screams—that inner shifting, those tragic cries, that inner peace; to see as calmness, this fury of souls—our years convoluted—and yet for sameness, this infinite pain, this glow by weights of stars: our shapeless woes, this amorphous love, as needed to artifice—this outer trauma, while floored as dynamite, this electric wagon; to meet a soul, as changed deeply, while arts avoid life: those traces of madness, as feeling this sameness, to greet an inner fantasy—while seeking life, this art as morphing, to collapse into tears. I’m revved, Love, to remember disdain, as to repay love; where something spoke, this Sufi language, streaming as falling as theologians; this core his dream, this pain his beam, this passion his love; where times are harsh, as days were gentle, this thing as nothingness; to rapture Dickinson, to peruse Safiya, to perish Trethewey; as thinking deeply, this woman his scar, this woman his mother; to give through pain, to create a monster, as to rehabilitate. I saw it early, sick at souls, a sickle to traumas—to feel those eyes, to see that person, to turn in agonies. It was misery, that second in time, that courage to become better—that favorite dream, angered with Poe, as living with death; while more to Kierkegaard, this fabulous soul, to perish by streetlights; this Douglass wave, this inner beating, that soul crossed at Golgotha; if but a scream, to diminish anguish, this woman as addicted to ethics; that casual excitement, that deep affliction, that turn towards justice; as so accountable, to rift his heart, while pushing for perfection. I love it, as torn apart, this yearly demon—to cry forever, as feeling joys, this deep contradiction; asearch that zenith, to feel his mind, this vestige as mirrors; and there to die, as there to live, while seeking secrets; to love for help, this silent wave, as crazed as inner caves; those petroglyphs, as magnet hearts, this sacrifice. I’m praying more; I’m seeing more; I’m arising more—this resurrection, as losing friends, to become this fire; where life is jewels, that deep interior, that castle afloat those dreams. I admire powers, to know that struggle, to realize our afflictions—as neurons fire, seated at grandiosity, afloat a barrel of scrolls—where love was bashful, even aggressive, to see a silent ache: this furious passion, those inner binoculars, those biochemicals—to arise a scar, leaking through traffic, a man as a walking cage;—where fathers live, this set of abstracts, this pain to forge a nation. It could be life, as sinning for fun, while dying for fun—as a bit distorted, this inner siren, those outer fields—to morph through glens, as seething with pressures, that song our membranes. I’m moving fast, a mere passerby, while to crochet a prayer; where mothers visit, those thoughts of love, to realize this inner conviction—at major wars, to feel that beat, where terrors strike ambitions: those fevered chills, that angry grin, that snatch of souls; while face-to-tiles, that gutting tension, that hurtle to God—as deep confliction, this life of fires, as a soothing crucible—to see it alive, this admiration, to know that grit—as seeing self, where pain blossomed, as aflame mentally.

Repercussions

We make decisions, a slave of such incisions, as reamed through memories; to change a verb, as to rupture a noun, while slamming into convictions; to love so grayly, that accumulation, those violet woes; as crying vengeance, this inner fire, aloof to repercussions; these flaming forces, at tales his life, where heaven appears as darkness: that long abeyance, those controversies, that inner whisper; as craving disasters, while destroyed neatly—our decisions harmonizing prisoners; where hell would glisten, as some sort of haven, while hearts are heaving. We sought out pains, mainly at unawares, both conditioned by chaos; where souls dwell, addicted to fast women, whereto, as seeking something promising: that static affection; that one soul trauma; those lights as infused by one; as men to roam, those jaded islands, that effect of sky-drama: those casual grins; that space in cultures; that reach as less than cherished. Such repercussions, those years at bars—that thought as greater than behavior; to seek that fortune, wrestling this old man, while running towards mirrors; wherewith, is art, this tragedy of souls, falling pits to arise as sky-flame: (if one more heist; if one more woman; if one more rift—as living this way, accused of deviance, subject to cultural laws; those vague enchantments; those hardcore tautologies; those ontological ethics; if but to breathe, as this other person, while unlocking at pains our centered selves; this wealth of chaos, associated madness, at once, to utter, They never heard me); this welted heart, as a whittled soul, by far, a welkin fire; where love would tarry, as some sort of scar, this essence reminder; or more that series, of complicated errors, while painting a picture made perfect: (were one to whisper, as knowing our histories, another would frown in despair). We despise arrantly, this person by songs—that mirror of repercussions; as needing to heal, if but to breathe, roaming as intimate strangers: (if self could see, this cultural chasm, where humanness is a common link—that wrath would dwindle, that tear would bless, that kiss would inform: if but this life, as facing turmoil, climbing as to reach that Promise); where scars are castles, as love is treasured, while building a fortress of values; this sick dimension, as acquiring sensorium, where such are prone to alienate; but more to reality, this season of torments, as repeating insanity: that weekly death; that monthly churn; those yearly demons; as provoking madness, as changed through travesties, to arise again that old person; that familiar land, despite repercussions, sealed through an inner terror; as screaming obscenities, at invisible forces, while reaming self for our sickness. It becomes a voyage, as singing to Spirit, while seeking healing: that person of virtue; that rhythm of reception; that need to witness our beauties; else, for murky lakes, mental monsters—a host of inner evils; where love is needy, as time is darkness, as one embarks upon a passage of inward betrayals.      

Crossing Races

We see for differences, by nature this curse, adrift so far apart; to lust for color, or to lust for Europe, at two those pores; to utter a epithet, or feel detached, warring in Mississippi: that inner courage; that African high; those rotten eggs. It should be love, as imbued with kindness, as tears those ideals; to see a human, instead of cultures, where art becomes tragic; this ink by blood, this bone by grizzle, that tare leaking into passions; as so naïve, where ignorance rules, that capital of madness. We wrecked pains; spoke as friends; to die as warriors: that tender touch; those hips and thighs; that kiss near ears; while hell grew, this distant closeness, to die those screams. I thought Pakistan, this place of marriage, as more devastation—to bleed diamonds, this sky-mine, a field of land-souls; as crying harshly, a chest heaving, screaming, He’s a heathen; where pictures ruined—this perfect image, her eyes buzzing; this life of sin, grinning embarrassments, as living in closets: that reputation; that inner deacon; those bloody lines; as courted to live, a soul broken, this man a child inside—to rupture a season, on mere a gesture, as reminded of cultures; that outer cure, this place to blame, this disguised demon. I heard from self, sitting sickly, our coverage that sinless family; to call for dung, to remind of love, this painful disjunct. It could be us, abused by happiness, or more this life—that shattered home, those parts to sea, that wind to shift; as cold and ruined, while dead and breathing, rubbing a palm as sorrowed. I saw emotions, unable to die, at sudden that burst of rivers; this brook of catharses, that valley of poisons, those hours at drifting; to remember cultures, as knowing truths—that familiar feeling; to die that name, to see as vivid, those colors wrapped in foreign arms; where time bleeds, to court souls, lost at inner meadows: that Romanian rite; those Jewish tenants; that word by grace this feature; to see Forever, with wealth to live, as returning gone.  I blink to ponder, gazing at arrows, flushed those rifting words; for it should be love, if so to die, as opposed to ruins; where neither suffers—but a second in time, as seeking closer.        

Sky Swan II

Salutations, Love. I drift at times, at wars with self, as not to cause a complex; but life is raw, this needs to ponder, this thing of cultures. It could be gentle, but thoughts are havoc, this tour to transform; if but for love, this core at humans, to see this evening face. We feel intensely, this pleasure of spirits, where said intensity is often askew; if but for graces, our wintry hearts, at coals for warming; that inner furnace, to course with time, at flights to wings our souls. I love us thinking, where thoughts are pure, this ambivalent sequence; where days are short, while nights are long, this inner person at tears.  I love a swan, to have lost a friend, where that course was shocking; to arise a man, this vet by self, to feel this roaming curse; at force to change, at hearts to pray, as to live this theologian; but grays are near, where pain is law, as becoming melancholic.  We know for passions, laughing through miseries, at wars to love others: We grow with practice, as to love self, while to adore this jurisdiction; where love is painted, in perfect strokes, as agaze by mosaic beauties: this feverish self, at woes to perish, where life is for others.

  I speak for self, this want for souls, to see it as reality: these jinn of cultures; this vest of credenzas; those letters we read in silence; to see your soul, afloat our horizon, as sophisticated wisdom; or more this split, as defined dearly, to realize those talents; to have a word, for one distressed, without losing a sense of self; but this for thoughts, to love is grand, while to hate is torture; as it ruins self, that haggard countenance, those brooding evils; where beauty is saddening, as arts are worthless, while prose is merely falderal; nevertheless, I see a genius, disguised as spirit, while forming into a glorious force: that Cajun spin; that jet to Israel; this pleasure in London; as crossed through wits—a Spanish sister, to meet by design that courage; if but to sing—this Italian purse, floating through grays: that inner Ferrari; that mental Porsche; that African songbird; where life is hearts, imbued through minds, at souls through passions.  It’s more to thoughts, such as intensity, to move through cultures; to blend as love, while at course a soul, to realize those hearts of men; nonetheless, we adore for goodness, as oblivious that chamber, to extend by law firm compassion; where grays appear, but not for love, this digging into pits; if but for arts, this laugh for some, while others, reality; so float a sea, as informed dearly, where love is a frontal pose.        

  

Firebrand

You couldn’t color me, this floating wave, as imaged by daughters: You couldn’t kill, this colored culture, as so near to love me. It becomes amazing, this runaway slave, tired of sitting still; while born to parody, or cave’s adventures, partially at mother’s war; to blame a soul, as never to credits, this man afloat, Let it be! I turned a corner, this naked woman, seated beneath gravel. I moved a stone; she disappeared; I saw an image. We float this way, lashed by society, to render this core resistance; as flying boldly, as cold as glaciers—that warm compassion. I died as living, this living as dying, to meet admiration: this storm of times; this Cajun spirit; somewhere as immortal; where doves cry, this purple song, alive this itch for more; that inner arc, as vibrant as heartbeats—this woman to reappear. It couldn’t be mother, writhing in gravel, where tires tread humans; that feverish soul, as febrile for wars, repenting for forgiveness. I’d grant it in passing, a man at loses, to fathom this welkin sin: that drifting touch, that Danish rush, this inverted chaos; as being mine, this song of woes, as capitalized in grandeur; to live it warmly, where falcons settle, as one a phoenix of dreams; this sphinxly guile, to induce a soldier, as mother trekked his psyche.  Our mental winters, asearch for cymbals, agaze at souls to live—that ark of dreams, severed by raging seas, as extracted from father’s mirrors: this Turkish drum, this Roman chant—our excursion through Persian prose; to find with love, this needs to sing, as more to encourage triumphs; where daughters wail, this crucial tenet, at peace to succeed by graces.  I loved an eagle, this woman through graves, as one cultured through ethics—where deers are eyes, as lemurs are wits, where today was a sullen visage; to come to pleasures, this style as natural, to form through psychs an inner image; as mother dies, to live by sinews, despite this face of heaven.  I’m more a spirit, afloat this ghostly realm, a bit frantic that journey; where father sings, as one imbued, as to return a gentle lad.  It should be gentle, at what expense, where resistance forms fires—to stream again, alive again, where songs promote effusions.    

Gradual Forces

(I’m mere a lad, slamming dominoes, leering at insanity: impish laughter; scented fumes; women brave that war: I’m told less, to see more, that earthquake conversation). Cigarettes pass time, to un-riddle innuendoes—that beige by bedroom anger. We live this way, pretending our natures, while to mimic a distorted image; this cry for grits, and six-minute-bacon—bread, butter and cinnamon. It lingers his mind, those famous personas, while seeking identity: that rhythm-walk; those tall tales; that woman by a set of rules; as casual converse, a bit too busy, that bedroom adventure; to smell an odor—as something harsh—this infatuation with mouthwash: to kill a segment, as prior to growth, about standards a bit dysfunctional; as more consensus, this feral culture, at tears to fashion our heartbeats. We read books, vying with black psychs, those as wild as hyenas: that armoire magic; that diary of sins; that memoir sitting in safes; as mother called, as another woman, teaching by mere examples: to push his buttons; to laugh at cruelty; at demands for respect. I took to rawness, where mother laughed, as to mold an impression. Our family was scattered; our roots were synthetic; where nannies guzzled and raised myriads. I heard of legends: I heard of vacant homes: I knew secrets as showing a trait. I spoke as spoken to; I treaded gently; I responded with facts. Life was different—as immortal souls—longing beyond promises. We gathered around, to witness pit bulls—as to utter it not: We knew of parties, those teenage vixens—that fear dissipating: We laughed our pains, while to cleave to images, where mothers tried to live it discreetly; as more to laughs, as children are cruel, to explain it in great detail. I’m mere a teenager, floating without a license, racing by hearts this culture: a curtly style; a flamboyant appeal; this error of ways embedded; those mental bars, as iron to morals, at stumbles to fall those mannerisms; this course of life, fretting reality, a man as treated that way; those feelings dormant, as believed as dead, to morph by chance in college; this blurry portrait; but near familiar; as seeing secrets oozing through eye-beats: that casual stance; that type of skin-tone; those shifts as hypomanics; to see sensitivity, where ours is debated, as flooded with mood-turns; our feral minds, a bit concerned, while ignoring accountability—as not for reckless, but more as entitlements, where deference is expected. I come from madness; those blatant discussions; where riddles carry contempt; or more this pain, shredded at hearts, as fueled by controversy—to see it lives, at cultures to souls—this needs to control. I’m now a man, this claim vetted rarely, as more to reality; but life is roses, this priestly ache, that fabulous nun; as more to sanity, crawling through memories, praying for father’s soul; while, too, for mother, this infamous fuse, where training was hard-won: to journey by course; to listen to psychs; to concentrate by art those follies of souls; where love is pure, as hearts are amazed, while surfing through portraits of Jesus; this fairest of stars, that charge by glints, as arranged through fate a static faith; as more eclectic, to know by graces, this force by aches of human beings; this terrible passion, alerted to by brains, where one enters by ritual a person’s heart.

       

Merely A Teen

It gets that way, that feeling deadly, that deep attraction; to know her name, to perish that life, as musing a contour; to stream Jesus, as blessing her soul, to velvet conversation. It became his mind, stressed by shores, disgraced by islands; to mingle Greece, with pure Belize, pedal to concrete. I’m alive a notch, peering golden eyes, those tides his mirrors; as abused that life, floored to rugs, to stare that mood-swing—addicted to graves, to transform wisdom, a star by grandeur; this cold effect, that inner Bathsheba, too far my leap—as gone his reach, as gone those tears, this fabulous vixen; to gaze a city, looking for beauty, this manic as a menace. I’m hiding souls, this crowded room, floating through media screens—while screaming in silence, this vexing name, ashamed of this passion; where dogs bark, as cats meow, that rare to see us both—as partying fools, afloat through traffic, to force his hand. I wanted more, to side a different woman, as one that made love; where another sparked, to see her soul, a table of pills. I lost appeal, to win appeal, this woman through virtues; that deep secret, to know a version, while secure those facts—this evil mystery, to see her face, beaming intoxicants. It’s more a dream, to know that death, to yearn that womanly; as seen her soul, a line to brains, as wild as Canaanites—forever a scream, as sore as love, an ice-cube that space. I market more, this intense fire, fifty through a gutter-lane—as peering at love, laughter resounding mirrors, smoke seeping into fabric; this life as lived, to sober his mind, at ninety to swerve a freeway: this bold hostage, as acclaimed himself, pinning to carpet those dreams; to die a savage, as born a priest—this incarnation; while hearts bury, this furious fountain, aloof but more to love. I saw her, of a different league, as more I tried; to catch her in traffic, blaring Jackson, a coquettish laugh. I called a voice, tipsy at liquor, as bold as magicians—to cry her heart, to comment beauty, to live it in a soul-beat. Oh for days, as crazed as men, surfing by chance those legacies: our purest of beauties, to laugh our efforts, to give in through jest.  (It gets that way!)       

Triumph by Series

Such scarlet visions, probing his soul, to reach out to beauty; this floating castle, stricken with purgatory, this inrush of pure energy; as holy in content, while mystic at tiles, this ceramic daymare; while pierced at bones, afloat this mischief, to reason as one insane—for more those truths, this molten feeling, as poured upon pavement—that cry our love, a zenic massacre, our brains mush’d into nightmares; whereto, proud to sin, unless for cornered, as appealing those graces—this scar of souls, at war's effulgence, flushed through by tenets. We’ve lived closets, perfected in disguises, our fleece fraught with tremors—while born to chaos, our mothers rejected, at search that midnight forgiveness: We’ve begged mercy, this elusive force, our bane affecting our futures; whereat, this love, too rich for Love, as something at parts destroyed; those vicious trails, those tracks through dungeons, as more this fantastic sorrow; to hunt for arts, this amazing plight, where neither understands glory—amazed by courage, this survivor’s instinct, those bullets grazing through cymbals; that loud aversion, centered in those seconds, wherewith, this fire to aflame a village; this fount of powers, streaming as yogic that flight—this christic voice, as charged deeply, to ascend descension—where truth is passion, this clash with men, as effused through nights that trauma—or more descend through ascension, as curt to heart, adrift a thousand seas; that tale of souls, that banshee vanished, that death conquered—while more a triumph, discarding marsh, while abating misery—our lithic souls, at fulgent turns, pulling as captured by zeal—whereto, are trophies, that woebegone, as exploited for riches—to sing a drum-scar, that wound to zillions, this inner zenith—as stars come mourning, that fleet of nouns, as striking through eternity. We live as legends, this hawkish tribe, adrift her ether—to find for reason, that extent of pits, while clawing to trek high terrain.   

Sky Soul

We need confusion, this interior symbol, to need for safety—to run from self, this kef of dreams, screaming at déjàvu. I’ve felt this feeling, as nearly crooked, this slanted appeal; as skyfall art, or skyglass windows, peering at skybone pains; this drill as fury, to love but couldn’t, this tragic passage; to run to self, but stumbling signs, as crazed as subtleties. I’m alarmed at fears, to see it as he saw it—leaping through skybeams; as there was God, where ninjas frolic, and gurus paint gardens. I felt mystic, charming angels, as sudden for sun; this long abuse, as traveling church, at hush to fathom conventions. It must be life—ubiquitous scars, to meet our daughters. I craved a symbol, as to lie those thoughts, as never he felt it; this inner creation, a wagon of signs, as serious as sorrows; where there to stand, this sunshine woman, to find for self at love; this thing that wasn’t, became what is, to die a tragic kiss. I float by, to see those mirrors, a pistol to an image; as graphic life, shaded at shadows, gnawing at lightness—an inner darkness, this lavish bar, to wrap his brain. Dear mother, as looking at us, to scream that hatred—as left he died, to meet a villain, as too, another death;—I saw for christic, this mystic illusion, as to open our caves—this craving a dream, an artful baptism, a lion to a kind gesture. I’m more to life, fleeing delusions, in need of being addled; as more an artist, to arise those skies, seeping into gravel—that rising rose, soil to seas, freezing by arts that life. It should be gentle, but what that ache—as captured through dragons; as knowing scars, a savage at sorrows, a soldier at struggles; to claim love, too far gone, those years at sins; to measure by distance, that sudden volt, to admire powers. We needed death, so death arose, a gift as a tragedy;—depending his nights, as cuffed at battles, agaze those feared eyes; as force would travel, alighting his spirit—our souls adrift. 

We Know for Differences

I know us more, those similarities, this curse of prophets; as rearranged, seething with angers, conditioned by reason; such carnal woes, morphed as divine powers, lurching forward at chaos; while aiding souls, this strength a burden, but far too rewarding: if but our souls, mended in one breath, our lives would deteriorate. I know us more, as seeping through knowledge, while creating circumstance: this grave invention, dying with time, while living with pressures. I admire wit, this light for children, this style of investigation; to see us testing, whereat, are flames, while to remain cold observation; as not to offend, but more those boundaries, shifting deep dialogues; of course, with self, this glory about thoughts, but a fraction our inner person.  I know us less, as abandoned to ideals, whereto, this furious injunction (order); as more to patience, seething with fury, this torture as loving an enemy; where hearts are sore, that exchange of pains, as cryptic as inner violence. I know us less, to have mated for fun, refusing our exits; this miracle distance, while absorbing spirit, flaming as falling to gallop—this trenchant wrath, as meaning nothing—aside for pure insanity! I know us less, that immortal shame, as eyes would suffer to see each other.  I know us more, peering at parallels, while studying mother: that engine revving; that cross as slanted; that liquid inquiry: to pretend in justice, as to appeal a grown woman, while at heart, I was mourning! I know us more, as mystic grains, whereat, to grow, this mosaic storm—where tears are fires, pouring into madness—this blurry of time as mortal. I know us more, as perfect sorrow, at trails, those shifting images.  I know us less, as imperfect assholes—our fingers pointing to sadness; as jeering pain, to applaud treason, while screaming, “Never I”: this page of horrors; that house of secrets; wherefore, this sense of inadequacy; as condemning self, by feigning perfect, as humanness engulfs our natures; to act for God, this vest of hypocrisies, while hiding a closet filled with demons. I know us less, as more I perish, to see this ironic design; where squirrels are watching, that armoire of panic, as clothing fails to conceal misery: this charm by vines, if mobile that wisdom, as to aid a village of orphans; for this is law, while claiming perfection, our imperfections leak into our open courts.  I know us more, this favorite soul, as seeing so little in time. I speak of self, as to image this space, while communing through heartbeats: that crazed armor, as reaching Christ, to fall by chance into visions; where patience wanes, as one for wars, to realize this deep compassion. I know us more, as seeking for rightness, at tales, a perfect abrasion—as even to fail, galloping immortality, a glint too frozen to feel; as more that moment, to silence in tears, while repenting those lights.  I know us more!    

Tillage Mercy

“Have mercy upon us, O Lord, have mercy upon us: for we

are exceedingly filled with contempt. Our soul is exceedingly

filled with the scorning of those that are at ease, and with the

contempt of the proud” (Psalm 123: 3-4). 

I know more pain, this sordid curse, as ugly at times; this terse fuse, while gladly infectious—such colorful Christians!  I held mirrors, and destroyed mirrors, this curse of images; where mother wailed, this tragic birth, trekking contorted wounds; to cry those sins, while plotting more sins, at crucial turns afflicted by jinn(s).  I must vanish, this three year hell, hiking through Jerusalem; if but for sanity, this prophet of men, harassed by such lofty Christians.  I do confess—but a wretched man, cleaving to mystic rites: that body and blood; those five graces; this travesty concerning suffering: those inner pleats; as dearly to flame; assaulted by demons; to live immortal, slammed into crises, where Love spoke of sanity.  I must confess—this inner contempt, at wars to forgive deliberateness: to kill for souls, as firm at laughter, to destroy a seed: this mother of woes; that beauty in sins; that cry as evilness; for such gentility, a man by seven, those caged insanities; as driven a fool, pleading his mother, where life was too rugged and rough.  It becomes mental, as one to aim arrows—this woman as sheer dejection: that morbid infection; those yearly drugs; that turn in time to become so lofty.  It should be gentle, as more this flame, at terrors, to swim through marsh; that fabulous anger; that cryptic sunshine; those sights as violence peaked; where neither cares, for life is drugs, while parents condone anything.  We sunk to rise, as shifting our feet, while flailing our arms; to meet with ghosts, that mental experience, those shards piercing into spirits; as born to love, this marvelous grace, at chase, to extinguish self-hate: this furious culture; but a set of rules; to follow by mortal standards; where life is death, this inner blessing, realizing our Christ-like minds.  We shed in parts, trekking showers of dung, to rinse finally our minds; as seeing life, that rare reality, as tears our humble souls; to turn cheeks, at a secret war, teaching by chance our mishaps.  

Fire by Lesions

It’s deep his guts, frying in guilt, eyes to water—as felt by Popes, this inner papyrus, this mystic woman—as bloody as diamonds, filled by filth, as holy as Jonah—to hear that voice, while tense this Jesus, a bit to rage. I could but live, as to die trying, infused with jazz: our math deadly, this bidden culture, as pure as midnight: unto madness, this fatal kiss—I wished your mind! It took for courage, this daughter my blood, shifting through traffic, as tragic as billiards, as plush as red ribbons, as gone as Starboy. Oh for mercy, to curse his soul, while slamming speed—or more those nights, this Wiccan twist, spinning through black magic; that graphic panic, as sheer ecstasy, crammed in a shoebox; to open terror, those claws to plastic, gnawing her own face; where life is bandits, and young tycoons, as leaping for Latin women. I felt envy, to cry our shame, painted in a blue tux—as beige that scripture, to fall between, courting a young nun; this holy gist, to twist through trauma, a baby in Italy; as died those scars, peering at fortunes, and one last heist; as ever it was, gnawing barbwire, reading political poetry, to know that death—where love was green, as passion was purple, where sol burned as brilliant redness; to ask of curses, one last breath, toe-to-toe with Satan. It could that flight, arranged by psychs, to pull that curse—as riding forever, that deep this magic, to tug until it glistens. I speak for riddle, that woman’s contour, to see Theresa—as plush as holy, forsaken to woes—screaming at purgatory; this lavish wound, as never to heal, as pure as gasoline; to thirst this love, to enter and die—returning with vengeance. I loved a vex, as to shed a kingdom, while to gain legacy—or more this curse, while driven insane, gnawing at bars. It could be gentle, a son as king, a daughter as legend—or more to marriage, flushed in riches, our hearse a shelf of friends; to see his face, beaming that office, as arms crossed prepared to war; for thoughts are raw, as to drop his head, to pass through violence; that fatal jinn, extracted by angels, sitting at a chariot—to feel for souls, this crooked composure, to love her by nature.      

Sky Swan

Hi Love—as shadowed in webs, those shards piercing affections.  (I know a name, as fraught in energies, to course your eyes: that fabulous magic; that measure of wits; those tender contagions; where pain is sung, as joys are pardoned, while doves alight your heart—to soar through tunnels, to cause by hearts, this lambent flame—where mystics roam, while diamonds speak, this African language).  We scribble in blankness; we doodle in deepness; we draw futures distorted by wishes; as living forever, too young to perish, as to embrace a sudden shock; where love is distant, as not quite there, infused by yearning hopes: our captivated minds, while tender that symphony, where mothers pause as to hide a tear; to watch us grow, as becoming aloof—this type of sternness.  (I heard a tear, somewhere that shadow, as to awaken in sweat: I saw a hawk, as to pass a letter—I wonder of reception).  It must exist, this thing of trials, as subjected to minds; where pain is rich, a bit more so than love, as life is dependent upon feelings: this feel good nation; where donkeys scold prophets; while fuses linger in midair.  I thought for cadence, this skyward chant, as to rend self apart: this terrible feeling, as fraught with fires, this need to impart a flame; as casual souls, striking through spheres, a bit too partial to kindness; to have that art, embedded in stealth, as to assume perfection; but this is life, sifting out goodness, while confronted by wolves; but more to love, to season a thought, while infusing our Ghost: this steady return, leering at mystics, as to comb a series of tomes; where pages sprout, as wings to form, while attached to membranes.  (I love our swan, as captured by rains, where passions have gone astray; but this is love, as to please take heed, prior to reproducing).  We adore goodness, as to shift through badness, where thinness takes flight; for it never was—this thing of eternity, as two rented a space: that nonchalance; those cordial pains; that need to ignore inconsistencies; but more to love, as flowers hide, awaiting to blossom in due season: this wisdom of stars, carved in branches, as to whittle a masterpiece.  (I want for life, this song of souls, to see this thing called adventure; where pigeons swarm, laughing at wildcats, climbing by root that apex).  It could be gentle, as for adults, as our young display wisdom; wherewith, are volts, surging into souls, where one stands affected: that mauve ruby; that taupe gem; our minds at once connected; to measure distance, as fire to flames, a bit too rich those sighs.  I know your name, this molten sacrifice, as joined to medieval times; to seek further, as to course through history, to find a wealth of imageries: that calm mystic; that patient daughter; those travesties induced by spontaneous sparks; to know for casual, as not for time, where adults speed through intensities; (but more to silver eyes and loquat ears and piano voices that place in hearts as violins); to love eternal, this hard-won chase, warring as to sculpture an opus: this outer orchestra; that inner guitar; that space in ballet as swans; where arts are raw, this political silence, as to have witnessed chaos; as more unsaid, this mental legacy, while imbuing our centerpiece.

Promises by Images

It had us by joys, this devilish fuse, afraid by chance that love; to run through valleys, or shiver through forests, those possums rifting mute bodies; to die again, as born living, this sin by virtue that art; while torn asunder, those sapphire cannons, screaming our souls of daughters; where pagans cry, alive by dungeons, to find it bliss that suffering; where mother wintered—that cold response, pleading for mercy.  I’m more a child, agaze by adults, hearing that languish so profane; at tears to love, this thing by cultures, to ride that vicious raft.  We soar afire, bathed-volcanic-ash, this phoenix your doorstep—as craving passion, where love would die, prior that life it never had; to tender by bone, at hearts those cymbals, amused this trombone-affection; where damsels dwell, fraught by aches—that kindness, infused by terror those symbols.  I loved a star, by grace that distance, to realize we never saw self: that outer lava, as inner sulfur, while confused by love.  It had to live, this virtue by eyes, to see that figure—and die our river; that midnight blue, ingested by life, as gnawed upon and spat out: this crawling angst—your hand by scars, those years at mercy a yanking spark; to push millennia, in mere a second, courted by jaded gestures: this harsh inflection, those dark meadows, that conversation with owls; as felt by horns, those intricate rites, at drums that mischief soul.  We could to live, that airborne kiss, floating as space that laughter; as maniacal hearts, cleaving variety, at woes those eyes we love; to hold for secrets, this engine by flame, aloft this mystic balloon; where death is glory, as life is mundane, to find by chance that medium; wherewith, are vices, as, too, guilty pleasures, to have at heart a tender stranger; as affected dearly, to rupture by instincts, that place in time as aloof.  I knew for flight, as to return to self—those months musing fire; to aflame by rites, this cryptic temper, at parts too fragmented; that mental candle, to flicker your mind, as to trespass souls; to love as hectic, this lambent fuse, akin to no land as friction; whereat, are skeletons, this body of science, muffled by kindness; to find forever, in mere a thought, to have loved our curse.  

By Joy that Agony

Winds are raging, atop a rainstorm, where thoughts are musing—to see your heart, as something cryptic, to wander through science—this deep enchant, as ruling senses, to ask of immortality; this crucial song, while minds wonder, this velvet vastness; wherefore, this passion, as more it evaluates, severing ideals—to come to terms, as feeling truths, this curse by math of blessings. I suppose for love, this vacant expression, where one longs for more—that inner urn, ablaze a phoenix, charging as bulls through deserts. It couldn’t be life, this force of humans, afflicted by sheer delights; or more that Spirit, rushing through rivers—our fields flushed in petals. I craved investments, as courting such winds, gazing at raindrops—this rabid raccoon, pacing afar, to nigh our backdoor. I pause to gaze, affixed on thoughts, sipping tea; to conclude nothing, infused and addled, residing in communion; for we had to live, seeking as giving, ablaze our nightfall: that welkin train; that riven feeling; that lucid tear; whereto, are confusions, this gentle craving, as to adventure deciduous years. I’ve come to live, as forced to perish, our rules becoming vague; this tint of life, kayaking oceans, searching for God: as visible passions, concerned experience, and less those adolescent doubts; while prone to knowledge, abating misery, as tempered as nuns—to cry by chance, those palms as moist—our inheritance withstanding assaults. It should be gentle, this war to live, while cleaving to immortality—that place of minds, as encouraged fevers, chiming by arts this myth; as kissed with love, while sorting through attractions, accusing self of seeming astray; to hold that fixture, this landscape of souls, at parts abused through memories. We saw for breakage, this mist of woes, to abolish those hopes; as running afield, while short to succeed, craving muddy waters; but more to this, as less to that, where minds are focused at our horizons; whereat, are crystals, and sapphire eyes, plus, this turquoise charm; that bracelet of alchemy, or more that quartz, as distressing our calms; if but to reach it—to soon discard it, or maybe to grip by cleats; where love is power, as soothing our angst, this fantastic fantasy; as born inside, afloat those cries, seething a disjunct.    

Static Cling

We flurry words, abated over life—our minds gripping havoc; to acquire stealth, this riven serenity, as to see motions: that winter shift; that tender seasoning; this infusion for daughters; where psychs probe, as inner thumps—this lexicon of experiences; while deep a canon, to explode in justice, while to carry a hint of disdain: our wild ways; our cultured sacrifices; this ability to touch through waves: that pistol-train, as to rupture life, where instincts are fires.  I love a swan, as to see a legend, with wishes to mold an inner castle: as glorious energy; or particles unexplained; or more this vest of imageries; as steep our chants, as wild as humans, as furious as dreams; to awaken suddenly, disrupted by powers, as to cherish experiences.  I caught a vision, as to capture whispers, while arts flourished through grime; to have this channel, as ablaze with rites, to stir through passions this living.  We often sleep—much needs for tilling, this cryptic sol; to want for actions, a bit enthused, aflame through arcs; to feel it rise, lost at oceans, while crucified dearly: this space at souls; that portrait image; that screaming affliction. 

(There’s a shift, Love; this present force, disrupting motion; as to see her face, encased in distance, as to arrive an hour late. It seems unfair, this outer flux, while hearts remain so close; to die this evening, as to arise come morning, to feel infused come nightfall; this cryptic occurrence—as pure effusion, while reason that loss.  I feel angered, this certain frame, while pleased with compassion: this stealth by life; this inner debate; our pictures merging in furies; to see contention, as charging convictions, to ride immortal experiences: this force by power, as cleaving to reasons, as to embellish a universe; that curse of souls, as seeking cessation, while worried of those conditions; where life is joy, this ecstatic feeling, as it becomes familiar; this active need, this rich afflux, while partial to a certain passion; where deers roam, those meadows as pendants, while exercising this pendulum; that mystic arc, flowing through branches, as to realize our roots; that magnet pain, those febrile hoofs, this breach in personality; as chiming with ghosts, enlove with arts, to envision this love as locomotive).  I speak to mystery; this sudden awakening; as born to powers; where motives glisten, as time would vet, this private spectrum; as torn asunder, seeking knowledge, as to disrupt that course; while mystics bathe, in pure those lakes, a bit oblivious.  (I know a name, as baffled with feelings, indulging a mystic ruse—while floored to chaos, attaining glory, with more for hopes; but what for currency, this shift in lives, while near that sentence; this crucial means, at courage a soldier, where hell is breaking lose? It comes in parts, a bit disjointed, severing something sacred).  I pause!         

Mystic Bloom

Its miracle tides, this crisis of souls, as bloom colors autumn; that fragrant mist, as pure as newborns, while craving this fortune. We sailed at loses, that turquoise sea—our sickness as butterflies; where time was gentle, but of course a ruse, while hearts measured ecstasy. I saw a jewel, as one betroth, to want but admiration: this sullen song, engraved in wavelengths, that mini-tornado. It came by ghosts, this want for glory, a man at woes a stranger; where mirrors lie, as passions are hostile, for that creative impatience. I must have lost it—as to die that fortune, while to forget self-imagery: that torn past; that logical paradox; those needs to meet myself; as camouflaged deeply, this tear of addiction, to hassle concerning self-worth. Our stars are calling—pushing rationality, as to offend logic: this course of men, feeling Valentine’s, at hearts to explain attractions. It comes with attributes, even mysticism, as to exclaim, I just do; where mischief churns, to know of flowers, budding within garden-hearts. I met a stranger, while hell was looming, to feel something incredible: this glowing force, infusing death, while minds were engrossed in chants. It becomes confession, as one to abate, but love was soaring illusions; as wanting this thing, some sort of escape, where Love was at paradise. I can’t explain it—that intricate mind, where neither is in touch with reality. It doesn’t choose, whether this or that, for all things are valued as authentic. This harsh reality, as expunging reality, while reality is seen rarely; at course with delusions, this internal chase, to find that correlation; where arts offend, as needing closure, where a terse sign disrupts fancies; as moving roughly, while trekking terrain, in days, to compose a tome: this long excursion, this intense poetry—that adventurous creativity; to owe so much, this inner wave, as choosing to retreat into paradise: that fortunate love, as giving one’s soul, while perusing this lofty feeling. I know for literature, this quixotic attraction, flailing all reasons to desist: this captured soul, as retreating dearly, at sudden to face emotions; this web by ventures, this unlatched art, this miracle by days of daughters; to hear such passions, singing of this future, where said future belongs to fancies; that fantastic feeling, to love beyond measure, while faced at woes this crashing island. It could be gentle, as wanting this thing, while offended that such was attained; this crooked mind, as seeing riches, to fault one for reaching; where this is life, that tunnel of fools, feasting where eyes can’t see.     

Inner Towers

We watch closely, this mafia mentality, speaking with covered mouths; as seen in movies, or read in books—that bunk of meditation; seeing by choice, those limitations, at envy this flute’s appeal; fraught with majesty, this inner mechanism, observing beautiful women; this chasm of fools, beyond our allotments, traveling this haunted corridor; as women grin, that angst for men, to realize money builds castles. I’m but a lad, addicted to fast living, captured by vices; as nonchalant, this lack of words, attempting to court beauty; that grave of souls, leering at riches, infused by something demonic; to shift through gravities, at war with tendencies, as to fall our Father’s arms: despite our chase, there comes sacrifices, while delving into divinity: that mafia music; that black market heart; those theologians; as sought by grace, this chapter of souls, where mother gave warning; to see us watching, awaiting moves, at strategies to alter powers. I lived as fools, running through cemeteries, this trope for mental havoc; at grief this soul, a magnet to woes, gazing upon mirrors from a distance; but ever those eyes, longing for freedoms, as perfected before cribs; that deep connection, those inner lines, those tender parents; as more contradiction, to fill a child early, with this unbreakable love; where courage is gentle—that knocking door, as authorities ask questions. I’ve learned this journey, this private experience, to love our father; for times are ripe, for stress upon chaos, where circumstances outweigh realities; that crucial turn, as floating through traffic, while to pause at a nunnery; where worship is magnet, as to imbue a child, while mourning such circumstances. But what is love, as to rear a child, where said child resembles the father: this dungeon charm; that loud temper; those innuendoes; to perfect a chasm, this abandoned feeling, as a father rinds his garments. I heard about priests, afflicted by fires, as to become this other element; as blessed through studies, watching from a distance, engrained in allotments. I faced a dream, as to embrace a vision, where said dream became a reality: this wrenching heart; this tragic warfare; our mothers at wars for decades. We need to sing, this inner reality, where families observe by grace; as invested deeply, that miracle of lives, that velvet illumination; to reach afar, by mere a glance, as to affect a child’s future. But it could be gentle, this wealth of wisdom, permeating destinies; where children relish—in sheer excitement, if to permit self to live: to shed mother, as to shed father, while to become a human soul. It’s quite extraordinary, as to attain that magic, while it’s quite exhausting; to reach it at points, as memories appear, our minds leaking in increments; where life is miseries, or embedded joys, a nation of children carrying parents; as, too, to carry self, this chain of realities, sorting through marshy lagoons; as hearts to swell, racing a mystic chant, at wars to evade traumas: as eyes have seen, such radiant chaos, while feigning as normal. But it could be gentle, this wealth of strategies, requiring excavations. I must apologize, as lacking knowledge, where reality appears so vaguely: this music for some; that music for others; this dependency upon education; as to build reservoirs, or to embrace ideals, while to ponder wholeness; this thing of partnership, as to appeal to masses, as opposed to appealing to self. But it’s cold this way, as to live this way, as to deteriorate slowly; where pain is crucial, as seconds are excruciating, while defending something harmful; as lacking in reach, where others placate, while some are writhing in agony. It comes by surprise, such resilient children, at once, to utter an unreality; as churned asunder, gazing at anger, where parents stand in utter amazement. But prayer is powerful, this universal, while surging through dimensions.    

Dear Swan;

Hey Love. This day is fire, that second in time, where daughters muse upon literature; to see that face, as perfected through thoughts, to imagine those grand events; when time is gentle, as hearts are warm, prior to those jaded fiascos. I wonder of life, your drumming soul, aflame with promises; as young adults, racing through ventures, and easily provoked. It becomes as sameness, those moody alerts, putting that soul through crucibles; where fires storm, as mothers teach, while fathers envision an angel: those bracelet charms; those flowing dresses; that winter clothing; to part by cocoa, a palm of marshmallows, a tender kiss; to call by minutes, filled with butterflies, to discuss those conversations; when time is gentle, such is fluorescent, as to have experienced but little; where love is actions, as becoming mental, while soaring through wishes; to laugh by rhythm, as to dance through words, as to shift through instincts: that flowing mane, those manicured brows, that bright finger-polish. I speak from wisdom; to refrain is knowledge, as to perfect that inner sky-world; where time is measured, as knowing for actions, while opposing whimsical flights; but more to gardens, and gemlike museums, running by chance along seashores; and more to waltzing, by heart of meditations, piecing together witty quotes; to have such words, our converse rich, while musing upon our options. It takes for seeing, while living by measures, to become a great person; where hearts are glowing, as thoughts are sequenced, and parents are in admiration; but more to adventure, those long goodbyes, those cards and kisses and teddy bear joys; to imagine forever, this torn event, to have for nothing except for love; as days are short, where nights are long, while nothing matters but those smiles. It takes for measures, to feel beyond seconds, to play while protecting your inheritance; but humans live, singing of vice, filled with inner communications; to want that voice, that precious hand—those faraway glances; but more to spirit, that different feeling, as more gratifying than ever; for this is love, this other pleat, where two are one at heart.     

I Love Us

Was it coquettish legs, or cherry blossom eyes, or embedded techniques? They come by nature, or mother’s influence, or stories concerning love; this vicious beauty, as to rub a wrist—that come hither stare; or more sadness, peering at reality—wrestling with an inner person; this torn good morning, a bit for moody, to smile by chance that wit; this evening kiss, as passing through lunch, while heated in passion; to die love, as to rekindle aches, that second our worlds disappeared; to have such love, screaming those motives—our nights as tender wishes.

I’m wrapped in us, trekking this vast Thought, sorting through teddy bears; as living by two—this inner excursion, while to realize eternity; if must we perish, our rendered hearts, we die palm to palm—as traipsing keenness, this outer castle, while exchanging hats; as love is mental, as morphed in actions, while to caress our wounded egos: My fair heart—as centered my soul—our words but fragments of that feeling; to outgrow doubts, glaring at forever, our mourning come troubles; to rise so gently, as to exchange faults, where arts soar genuinely; that mutual manipulation, as cultivated with time, to love this nature a bit lethal.

Was it air-pumps, arising that hidden space, as to flourish our huts; this treasured amore, to laugh so valiantly, where gifts camouflage this anguish; for souls would vanish, if not this love, as minds would sorrow, if not this love—and die we live, if but this love, as sick for love as kings for kingdoms.

I give us this night, as but a testament this love, forever grounded in us: this welcomed dinner; that morning breakfast; those arts afar our chemistry; to see perfection, in such as humans, to put us first: as welded to God, afire this Spirit, chiseling a kind response.  

Are Thoughts Inherently Astray? If so, What are they Hiding? (Mystic Inquiry)

"Thou hast to reach that fixity of mind in

which no breeze, however strong, can waft an

earthly thought within. Thus purified, the shrine

must of all action, sound, or earthly light be

void; e’en as the butterfly, o’ertaken by the frost,

falls lifeless at the threshold—so must all earthly

thoughts fall dead before the fane" (The Voice of Silence, 67).   

Again with thoughts, those grounds of havoc, as roots appear chaotic: that paranoia; that hooking fear; that insecurity; as more for others: that deep joy; that sheer ecstasy; that soothing calm.

I know more of seasons, as they come in increments—those moments that internal war; to think without thoughts, as pure awareness, as to feel our souls; where awareness is eerie, even threatening, as thoughts cause a rift. We silence thoughts, as conscious roots, that practice a bit daunting; as thoughts would climb, as vying for power, to appear a tad hostile.

What becomes of us, as each journey gains by losing—this claim to normalcy? If to shed thoughts, there’s something discarded, while something else is growing its wings; as no longer fledglings, but these internal forces, by rites a target of something esoteric. 

One claims as possession, this root by chains, as possessed by that very thing; where thoughts are ridged, and/or, jagged, cutting as to disrupt silence; but something for thought—those sharpened moments, where thoughts assist in acquiring knowledge: to sit at composition, edged in directions, as blank as pure awareness; or to feel energies, while to communicate inwardly, as to presume a level of insights: so what for lose; or is it possible; this thing of ridding thoughts?

I sought as a youngling, this thing of thoughts, as told not to think so much; this thing repulsion, as singing in terrors, this want to attain scholarship; or this mystic madness, to read by suggestion, as our souls retain information. I found self speaking, at deep unawares, of this thing I had read; this journey of thoughts, to attain to—no thoughts, while losing a piece of self.

I gained reality, this cutting awareness, as valued but a bit haunting: to feel self, as throbbing pulsations, while staring into dimensions. I angered thoughts—that vie for dominion, while leading, at times, one astray.  There’s something to thoughts, if be it through training, this maze by which we extract pieces of knowledge; as knowing self, at which to know God, at which to see humans; this terrible reality, thrust through by presence, those chills as it grins.  

We speak of wholeness, even diagrams, where wholeness entertains each quadrant. We are parts of circles, our thoughts, in parts, our guidance, where unsaid thoughts require courting; albeit, by greatness, I must differ, as to presume that thoughts are awareness; if rightly so, this deep connection, as overseers, must be cultivated, as opposed to eradicated; as God is One, this thing of solidifying, as opposed to exiling; so train we must, as to soar we grow, this thing of thoughts.

We practice both, as to evolve, as not to alienate ourselves.

Loving You is Sweet Adventure

I mourn our love, as eternity is fixed—this lifespan of mere mortals: our days as children; our nights by frolic; this turn to sadness our measure; where seconds are worn, that knitted quilt—to perish cruel fate. I love instead, this immortal feeling, chased by time: that mirrored gesture; that coquettish smile; that drumbeat laugh; as more a soul, those years at training, those therapeutic flutes…. Were love wretched, we could die—that place of fainted hearts; but love sings, this boisterous song, as arcs churn our symphony. It must be gentle, that precious palm, abed that light; to have loved so boldly, to have died with grace, to have given beyond measure; that cryptic voice, so cherished as mystic, to find your print aspark a furnace; to hold your hand, to reminisce by joy, this exit perfected by irony; where doves would cry, as geese stand in formation, while deers leap in celebration; but more this moment, painting blueberry toes, while nibbling cheesecake. We know for struggle, as our graduation, where others want such cultivation; this inner resolve, to love by actions, where speech compliments aforesaid: that outer miracle; those charming red lights; that fireplace of prose: our dear encounters; our centered luxuries; our minds as psychs to nerves. I fumble to reach us; I die to inflate us; and more this miracle to voice us: those bedroom gardens; that tank of butterflies; our adventures by minds our meditations; to feel your heart, as beating motion—so near to touch; to share secrets, as delving deepness, while at tears to return to earth; that rich enchantment, as warm as liquids, to see with souls this immortal reach; but never as taken, to part by grace, to have loved as fools; this abundant pleasure, as furnished imperials, to waltz by aches such fervor; where love is life, as life is love, if but forever this bold endeavor. We’re still to laugh, adrift this afterworld, chasing as high school students: those symbols of music; each breath an undercurrent; each step as matrimony. We loved a feeling, to cultivate passions, to become as if your right arm; that second to pause, to ponder your feelings, as to love by chase your arc; this soothing jazz, or that macchiato, or million dollar diamonds: this space is us, as purple irony, seeping into blues. 

Crucial

At souls to touch it, this inner feature, a bit that fire; at crucial turns, this explosion, as ventured unsteady; to course through love, as torn apart, made whole that sudden kiss. We live this way, at search imbalance, as to avoid disruption: that vocal kindness, as if a child, that tiptoeing adventure. I’ve loved at breaks, semi-distorted, looking upon beauty—to die that gesture, as resurrection, where arts proved invalid; to hold eternity, in one glimpse, this glint chasing prose. It takes for courage, to unlock essence, at times, by unawares; to feel this self, that different touch, while maneuvering sentences. I held a palm, this baby girl, as she reached eternity. I asked her name, to see a smile, this moment uncanny. We flower this way, at pressures that scar, receiving therapy—from but an infant, in tune with souls, while at tears to confess softness; this listless cell, peering at bars, alone a crowded vestibule: where words are void; as stars are afar; while vulnerability sits at a furnace; to kiss as love, that tiny forehead, while a finger is tugged upon. I’m at hearts this wave, racing in stillness, awakened by membranes; this feature of woes, as adopted by psychs, where we hide at crucial points. I met a mirror, and begin to curse, listening to introjects. I met a friend, a total stranger, and made love. It comes this way, as never again, while I hide from mirrors: to glance quickly; as never to pause; while something tugs at resistance; to walk a room, deep in rituals, at souls those knees to bend. I’m hearing noises, this old house, where ghosts are trailing; to reveal that face, or to see that feature, as soaring through realities. I must convert it, this inner flare, at course to witness our fair lady; where days are crucial, as love is crucial, as not to wait on eternity; instead, to chase, as running through hallways, peering at floating murals: that inner cry; that floor-lagoon, those pigeons speaking in tongues; to find this man, this restless spirit, composing to a mirage. Our halls evaporate, standing near a city, gazing at this celestial rose; where love would utter, that crucial sound, as one turns in fear. I’m seeing babies, this part of us, this ticket to immortality; as mere humans, to disclose facts, where a child ponders as amazed. It becomes life, as more a gift, to see such love.