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.
