These ontic waves,—thrust by melancholy,
over a mere gesture; to do her well, this cosmic thorn, while purpose beats its
rhythm. It’s a yogic slant, a mystic heart, this Buddhist by far a young cry:
this inner concern, filtered by ontology, this being as being that being; to
ask of souls, this contradiction, but willing to give hell; to love as dying,
cringing with passion, that lake too far that mirage. It could be life, as
opposed to envy, if but a gesture were genuine; this false complaint, as
seeping into reality, while keeping to stillness: this shaky voice, a
self-conscious soul, peering at a psychotic; as losing venture, to read such
reach, as becoming a human. We laugh to see it, as everyone’s right—this
logical contradiction; but it must be us, as plaid perfectly, our black to
white as opposed to grays: this frivolous angst, this frivolous mirror, while
grinning conviction as a liar. I shall retreat, as falling lower, concerned
with spewing venom; to love by sickle, reigning as an illness, too encaged to
address such sorrow; this fallen dream, as once so young, as a heart led us
astray; this deep capacity, to remember too
much, a phone call at that hour. (I’ll tell a secret, as a man chose love,
that woman beyond errors; as ever too
close, those hairs to flesh, as to crumble such intensity: this drama by
stage; this trauma as rage; this man willing to forgive); but life is altered,
this jaded soul, at peace with sharing love; this muddy terrain, this murky
lagoon, this marsh meshed to mayflies; as agaze by deers, those lemur eyes, as
crows follow by traffic. It shouldn’t be real, as affected forever, this memoir
bleeding cruelties; to find dimensions, as furious fires, a bit too frank for
kindness; this miserable man, as this joyous man, to reveal such contradiction;
or an oxymoron, this simultaneous tension, at woes to bandage such wounds; that
ontological, this being sipping
chaos—as knitted gently in pains—that casual nonchalance, to sense something different,
to want what she couldn’t give; this thing of dynamics, as ever to suggest,
this one-sided effusion; where life is green, as to shift a soul, this needs
for caution. I’m thinking beige, as reaching for turquoise, this exchange as
reality; to ask for more, by mere a gesture, as wanting to part ways; that is,
we fit a ticket, where tickets are static, but said ticket often fits us not; thus, confusion, this rocky trail,
(where perception must shift); but more to chaos, for training is required,
where an untrained possesses powers.
I’ll give us more; as mother lived—that perception of self was untrue; to claim
for virtues, by ways of disorder, perceivers chided illusions; as more this
riddle, where wits are low, one at functions disrupts traditions. It becomes a
mirror, despite our trainings—said mirror is quite shocking; to curse
outwardly, our rants to hillsides, where inwardly something is tugging.
