Our
lambent hearts, as voltaic as lightning, thrust into Taoism—that impatience,
molded as patience, to become intuition; this call to life, as bright as
candles, that flickering blue flame; as meant to perish, if but to live, to
lose by gains such sinning. We met a vessel, this exchange of persons, geared
towards this awesome journey; to feel by measures, this infant fire, as palming
a baby girl; this small feature, pleading kindness, at this teat of mother-life—to
find for rudiments, those genealogies—our rubric bent towards eternity; that
lavish night, those radiant stars, that tulip walking as a voice. I saw a
flower, to melt into love, while love ruptured a gland. I tended love, as love
evaporated, this kindness of cherry-blossoms; that soul’s print; that tottering
spirit; those strong currents tugging at memories; to catch a vision, upon
native soil, as bound to this expansion. We live it born, these years of chaos,
as to form a theses; that melic charm, unto thetic eyes, peering as falling
into prose. I could remember, those sweeter days, but such was lose those hearts;
to void eternity, as something cruel, while rushing into delusions; as oh so
strong, this vessel of worth, as partial to slanted ideals; to want this
essence, as screaming eternity, to fall by chance this upwelling. Our tides
have come; our shells are whistling; those truths are forming castles; to
search within, this Zenist art—our sensei this voiceless charm; to feel for
thumps, as to feel for fire, as to form this love—our Ghost. I cried to heaven,
to morph through hells, as sentenced to perish this feeling; as changing lives,
through mere this journey, to alter a false impression. I could but love, as oh
so kind, but bent on repercussions; to love once more, as if times are clear,
where said infraction occurs thrice; but this is evil, to withhold love, as
something we profit for gain; so more to love, this notwithstanding—out birds
are chirping to mesto—this inner mestizo, as climbing for gripping winds,
at source to course through infinities; that long life, as grounded afar, while
sitting a small office; this plague of life, this horror’s house, those halve
bodied ghosts. It becomes sharper, this poignant charm—that mist falling into
rooms: that key as typing; that phantom’s opera; that line of Sibyllines—to
arise as courage, while pushing forward, to have lost a rib; this infant man,
upon solid grounds, to have destroyed Goliath. I could but shiver, to see for
Samuel, such holiness hacking a man. We sense it not, as to sense it all, this
woman’s smile; as uncanny dearly, arranged in fiction, to have passed a kiss;
this pack of wildness, as crucial those gardens, to find for this slant towards
persons; to love a foe, or to float our pains, as singing for building this
mental piano; that fan’s life, as waving calamities, to find this
grandiose—that music of psychs, as sensing it all, while pressing brains to
emerge. It couldn’t be real—this sighted self, as at peaks towards our
flights—as fervent souls, with sickly ambitions, convicted at heart to move
correctly. Oh for mercy, this family-curse—our diversity reaching beyond
normalcy; to fiddle as fettled, this grand cello, reaching by roots to
infinity; to break with silence, as forming this violin, while birth is hectic
this adventure.
