Conditions by Natures

We have concerns, while fencing through dungeons, alarmed by behaviors; as hearing sirens, this mixed environment, too cold as seen as warm; this bold confession, to render but goodness, yanked by human proclivities; to have died a fledgling, to arise as souls, purposed a bit slanted; that dye of life, this jasmine prose, at tears that taupe tarp; where love is vicious, as opposed to kindness, as needing that love. It should be gentle, this animal as peeking, where time showed that dysfunction; to frighten flowers, appalled by lights, seeping Satan’s dreams—as screaming out this curse; but more to songs, stressed as confused, peering at a gentle poet: that broken scar, as pieces to winds, this airborne empathy; to live as mystics, to mingle with yogis, to find faults with tendencies; as breaking mirrors, as but a mere glance, as steep as caves that jeer. It could be life, this art by romance, to chance immortality; that inner legend, that converse ritual, to have heard that cryptic sign; this faraway, as near to souls, to ask a psych her name; that fatal cry, as water to eyes, to have no reason for rage. It takes for time, reading as blemished, adrift immortal kindness; to have that feeling, charged by lights, to frantic a bit liquefied: those steep dimples, that roaring smile, that person hidden—as seeing dimensions, to open as calmly, that instinct by shifts a legacy. We crawl to bears, that fluffy pillow, disguised as our friend; as mothers watch, while fathers laugh—our children identifying: to pass out names; or hide the bear; to realize this minor delusion. It comes by nature, this worship of Santa Claus—our search for this Easter Bunny; but more to lights, this deep illusion, while searching through reasons: as our mirrors lie, bathed in insanities, where an honest mirror is plain ruthless: this cause to live, as mending disasters, this cry for human-hood; as pure affection, this inner song, while casual a sin to die. We should be friends, avoiding such travesties, while feeding seagulls—this faint to joys, reading gestures, walking our centered contours; where love is spoken, in precious responses, as never overtly; this savage man, as redeemed dearly—this gift by powers our screams; to see us perish, while acting in contrast, forbidden from a sudden outburst; but songs are there, breaking innocence, as sheer this theater of antics; to cry our nights, as cleaving to frames, afforded one last consequence; as times are blatant, speaking actualities, to perish this conditioned island.