I’m
running cages, this tension rage, celebrating your name; that mystic windmill,
those tragic scars—that flavor to water inner eyes. I’m chasing grass, to
tumble weeds, to fumble through winds that drive. I’m pulled by sin, scribbling
airborne, at tension that rage; this inner movie, to reverse time, to approach
as more than lemons; that leaking wound, while pouring sodium, to extract
venom. We could but love, ever again—so much to be dishonest; this fatal train,
crashing so fast, this vast turmoil. I’m losing senses, this nameless man,
trekking those sober shores; to ask that lie, this thing of forever, that
solace through lies; as caved within, digging for blueprints—your eyes filled
with angst; to have killed slowly, this mystic grain, through febrile chills;
this beautiful storm, this sweet sorrow, this missive raging through flesh; at
best a man, at worse a fool, at tears, this inner session; where sparks would
rise, as living would die—together that riving wind. It should be great, this
fear of emotions, too proud to confess; as carrying hell, this lone-ranger,
peering through bathroom curtains; that mirror of pains—those that see—as never
to feel—this lot of scrapes—coursing through shadows—to give us that one kiss.
I’m bathing tears, as something reaching—to escape those chills; this legend of
minds, as dead that light, to hope that majesty: our honest distrust, as
lacking self-trust, as giving more to do as others. I’m a grave, forsook to
life, crawling through fields; this mime of lights, a hallucination, streaming
through words this curse; to find us
there, an infant rainbow, too scared to ruin brains; this far-be-gone, as
releasing this force, to return that mystic star—as crossed to perish, too
strong to die, this tear but lightning that thunder. I love a song, this sad
feeling, to rearrange through breathing. Let it be, but never change, as if
tomorrow would embrace a dream; this lonely light, as crowded by chi, pulled
forever that current. I laugh often, with tears through eyes, as changed by
kindness; this cryptic friend, as loving this soul, as rarely to witness that
weakness. We should live, as for carrying hell, this pressure to sin; but tombs
are cursed—so early as altered—and tired of dying; so flame this mystic, to
infuse a nation, as connecting guts to souls; this fabulous feeling, as killing
through prose, her words so electric;
to see your life, spread through music, our swans absorbing our currents; this
chiseling effect, that anchor as torn, this depth as yours; to touch as one,
that heightened sensation, as pulled forever.
