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.