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.