Refined as in a Furnace

It’s terrible dread, this shivering chill, someone’s story at souls; to die perfection, our perfect love, embedded with errors; to shift at turns, to realize trauma, this world it’s become; as eye to soul, or soul to spirit, leaping into futures; that awakened heart, those verbal rebukes, to break knees to repent. I see us dying, those dregs as living, to want this euphoria; that kind reply, while soaked in ashes, to render this fine sorrow; as daughters adjudge, to realize spasms, as seeing perfected that Ghost. I’d laugh at clearance, this want for perfect repentance, to recant myriads of truths; to cry to purple, this cyan regret, while as beige as politics; this in-between, falling as to arise, this man but a speck of furniture; as filthy rags, or contorted faces—our own confusion. I see that heart, as frightened of life—this midnight sun; where hopes are gray, aside for passions, as seated at latitudes; to rev a feeling, as twisted in spaces, to believe that one must suffer; this bold endeavor, as wishing illness, while forgiving self for treacheries. I must retreat, as to alter him-self, adept at speaking beauties; such as crashing waves, upon naked toes, while sipping an energy drink; or kites afloat, as warring with winds, astounding gravity; this tug as pulls, our souls as friends, this portrait stippled upon destiny’s flesh; those burgundy scars, sealed with scabs, as scratching to become soaked in riches; this inner essence, spared by charm, to become so serious; that personality, peeking while blitz, as one nearly dead while sober; to hurt for feelings, to apologize daily, at laughs over something causing traumas. I must retreat, as casual our storm, filtered through by ghosts, this phantom privilege as vengeance; to give but reasons, to clear our slates, while innocence is still abroad: this furious woman, as seething for clarity, where souls must acknowledge this presence. I’m wants to laugh, but times are crucial, to do this part as clearance; as reading Theresa, or musing through Gertrude, while at a snail’s pace through purgatory; this as sin, this loquat adventure, those times sitting at wars; to find such richness, this beauty as lethal—our courage a bit to futilities; as loving that sign, to race towards symbols, this patience at once a fire; as less to meals, while more to prayer, aloft that deep kiln.