I’m
familiar this space, at last, to fever this heart; by virtue a spirit, alive
these inner parts, at tears, to remember this love. It came by chance, this
lance to soul—our roots beckoning peace; to die coldly, as trekking marsh—this
land of jaded arts; to curve so gently, alas, I lie—for hell scourged a
trickling soul. We enter dimensions, coddled by wormwood, favored by
calamities; to slant so boldly, this expectation—forgiven for trespasses. I
sought to live, by this crooked compass, as swerving through troubles; while
still a virgin, at war with instincts—that close an apology; but what of
rubbish, those fragments of wrongness, as one caters to travesties? I could to
perish, as affected dearly—this struggle by ladders a tragedy; but this is
grief, our chief infection, to die so passively; for life is rigorous, that
morning war, contemned by inner images; to curse a star, or pride a
scar—forever those beating hearts; to love by grace, at face this communion, as
to remember a particular phrase; that inner angst, as an outer rash—those cold
memories; at floors to misery, this chi to winds, or more this chi within; to
carry mirrors, that mental dialogue, as churning all tales forbidden; where
death would peak—arrival that gurney, as to return in increments. I’m catching
self, feuding reflections, as one pushing too much; this fervid trail, deceased
at portions of self, communing with concentration; to arrive that heart—our
waves to cross, alert to this inner tug; this capital feeling, as lambent
flame, scudding through dimensions; where daughters watch, as to adjudge
emotions—this falling forward in fires. It should be love, or analytical
refuge, as more this flowing river; to seize a current, while attached to
distance, this ocean of curiosity; to ask so little, while musing so much—this
touch a taste of reality: this riven friend, as to vet a feeling, leaning upon
a private compass; to shift at attributes, this contorted self, as never to
know. It’s difficult a life; by virtue a measure; to dig so deeply for tidbits;
but these are arts, those vetted epiphanies, as leery of such messages; as
affected minds, searching for effects, streaming causality; to arrive at
alleys, stationed in darkness, to realize for lights. I could to live, this
faceless journey, as adrift with rainstorms; but this is agony, as never to
render—that type of insight that carries longevity; as more a soul, this
shadowed person, eerie of those days; where fancy ruled, as to destroy in
segments, this soul fastened to madness. It was life that night, insync with
spirits, as to affront personalities; this crying love, bolted to
furies—ingested with confusion; this irritable man, reaching for mischief, that
sin by knowledge; where ghosts would dwell, as tenets would cry, to offset such
chaos: this tragic witness, to carry trespass, agaze by such communion.
