Its
miracle tides, this crisis of souls, as bloom colors autumn; that fragrant
mist, as pure as newborns, while craving this fortune. We sailed at loses, that
turquoise sea—our sickness as butterflies; where time was gentle, but of course
a ruse, while hearts measured ecstasy. I saw a jewel, as one betroth, to want
but admiration: this sullen song, engraved in wavelengths, that mini-tornado.
It came by ghosts, this want for glory, a
man at woes a stranger; where mirrors lie, as passions are hostile, for that
creative impatience. I must have lost it—as to die that fortune, while to
forget self-imagery: that torn past; that logical paradox; those needs to meet
myself; as camouflaged deeply, this tear of addiction, to hassle concerning
self-worth. Our stars are calling—pushing rationality, as to offend logic: this
course of men, feeling Valentine’s, at hearts to explain attractions. It comes
with attributes, even mysticism, as to exclaim, I just do; where mischief churns, to know of flowers, budding within
garden-hearts. I met a stranger, while hell was looming, to feel something
incredible: this glowing force, infusing death, while minds were engrossed in
chants. It becomes confession, as one to abate, but love was soaring illusions;
as wanting this thing, some sort of escape, where Love was at paradise. I can’t
explain it—that intricate mind, where neither is in touch with reality. It
doesn’t choose, whether this or that, for all things are valued as authentic. This
harsh reality, as expunging reality, while reality is seen rarely; at course
with delusions, this internal chase, to find that correlation; where arts
offend, as needing closure, where a terse sign disrupts fancies; as moving
roughly, while trekking terrain, in days, to compose a tome: this long
excursion, this intense poetry—that adventurous creativity; to owe so much,
this inner wave, as choosing to retreat into paradise: that fortunate love, as
giving one’s soul, while perusing this lofty feeling. I know for literature,
this quixotic attraction, flailing all reasons to desist: this captured soul,
as retreating dearly, at sudden to face emotions; this web by ventures, this
unlatched art, this miracle by days of daughters; to hear such passions,
singing of this future, where said future belongs to fancies; that fantastic
feeling, to love beyond measure, while faced at woes this crashing island. It
could be gentle, as wanting this thing, while offended that such was attained;
this crooked mind, as seeing riches, to fault one for reaching; where this is
life, that tunnel of fools, feasting where eyes can’t see.
