Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Color Our Souls

We shake it rarely, this inner shadow, that contour darkness; while loving souls, shaped as secrets, afflicted with transgressions; as more to trespass, this island of visions, at war this native sun; to launch campaigns, this inner iniquity, as more is sorrow; those cryptic scriptures, this mental maze, aflame this mystic arc; to adore this reach, as cultic our daughters, to shift through insanities; at reason to flourish, our souls threshing—as everything our minds. It took for madness, this cryptic outcome, as logic stole a sabbatical: this psychic vest, as more that brain, to meet in union as force. It drifts forever, this cash as wisdom, knocking at your heart-door; to feel for entrance, this ache of souls, while fencing through dungeons. We die immortals, to love as chants, this feeling of emptiness; to sing that soul, pulling by virtue, a bit too curious for actions; as born to love, this trip through France, roaming as musing our tragic women; this force of grace, as mentioned that mind, while gawking at inner mechanics; this graph by song, our Latin women, this volt to Africa; to pierce a heart, this twofold response, while pondering Rome. We keep it distant, our mothers perusing, while fathers wiggle a finger; to love us dearly, this cadence of rhythms—our velvet ghosts; to melic opera, this maestro of reasons, this mesto as bending winds: our airborne love, this telic angst, as soothing with time this art. We sung for days, this cry of souls, while digging deeper those dungeons; to bounce a heart, to barrel a root, where affection comes through prayer-life; this lucid feeling, as a bit too clear, as to retreat to quarters. It takes perfection, to mold each gift, as to whistle into realities; this passage of thumps, as sorting through traffic, this color a mood contagious: our silly ways, as to prove a point, where powers are indomitable: this soul by nights, as feeling suspicious, this inner exchange; to break with lightning, this vajrayana—as so precious this inner voice; that deep communion, seated at podiums—our altars raving with energies; to see a star, leering in shadows, as knocking upon doors; this morning reign, as sensing forever, this touch as turns through terror. It could be gentle, a friend as a confidant, while sheer to that plateau; as keeping silence, this vest of cults, while gazing afar that leap; or more to secrets, this investigation, as composing a treatise.     

PS.

    The strength to withstand the winds; a spell as it effects/affects some creature. A sudden moment filled with absolute certainty, so wro...