Forever as Art

We chase, Forever, this rope by nature, as pure as infants; this claim by souls, as rapid that following spirit, as to trespass domains; this beating whistle, to have harkened your heart, at woes to explain your love; while forming composure, this part as psychotic, to harvest a formidable secret: this place in actions, its true intentions, while reserved in presence. We love by reason, some form of theories, as to posit our defenses; otherwise, we love as fools, our matted brains, chased by threaded calamities; to have that claim, where life is sickening, or more, that humans are wicked; this fallen curse, as dispersed frustration, ever so eager to pass responsibilities; while life is moving, this pleated and platted heaven, where souls commune by inner phones; as charged by prayers, or something extensive, where I trespass your island; as pausing in currents, to rev in sequences, as to return to your island. I schedule to flee, while framed in majesty, sailing by thoughts your chi; to come to terms, this wicked blessing, to explain, this twofold coin; as more to loquat lashes, or ruby ears, that tide in stress those craving volts; where moments are watermelon, or steak and lobster, those times as relished by souls. We measure love, unless uncontrolled, as to retreat from composure; this feral exchange, as rapid as addictions, surging from plants to brains; where swans knit, this thing of friendships, to vent by arts that cache; while deep this venture, this cultured environment, at moments, revived through yoga; to pause by chance, that sequence of thoughts, as to have that experience; or more perfected, adrift this theory, where heaven is a mirror’s reach. Our worlds connect, this firmament activity, to feel moods and motions, or Bhakti and thoughts;—where souls search for evidence, as to judge for self, this wisdom of secrets; to shift a soul, or garner ideas, while seated abed a fire; where daughters are praised, as mothers sing, while fathers measure-out affection; this solemn by stealth, as not to offend, as love is measured by mothers; this treasured curse, as legit as chi—formed a musing belly.  (I hear your heart, our immortal ties, running through experiences; to see for times, that immortal spin, while grinning inside; this flavored fortress, as one would trespass, to offset souls through words; but life is gems, and rubric responses, as souls conjure through brains—this immortal chi, threshed through mystics—those souls encircling our contours; to feel for presence, that extraterrestrial, that sky living in hearts; to sing of love, this feeling of arts, to stress over this being of feathers. We sing for souls, to uplift spirits, this air pumping a chest cave; as times were gold, this want for secrets, as to graduate through trials. I saw your brain, pasted on an image, as to admire activities; that sound composer, those fruitful vines, that tale that told of heavens; as caves would open, to thump through arcs, this vestibule of winning ghosts; while yin for yang, this needs for balance, as one seeks to become immersed—in ever that thread, which studied itself, while explaining through nods; this space in parts, this inner volcano, this touch by chance your own face; to give us more, where eyes are open, racing as to offset sorrow; this run through tundra(s), this chase afar, to utter, I love you.).