We flurry
words, abated over life—our minds gripping havoc; to acquire stealth, this riven
serenity, as to see motions: that winter shift; that tender seasoning; this infusion
for daughters; where psychs probe, as inner thumps—this lexicon of experiences;
while deep a canon, to explode in justice, while to carry a hint of disdain:
our wild ways; our cultured sacrifices; this ability to touch through waves:
that pistol-train, as to rupture life, where instincts are fires. I love a swan, as to see a legend, with wishes
to mold an inner castle: as glorious energy; or particles unexplained; or more
this vest of imageries; as steep our chants, as wild as humans, as furious as
dreams; to awaken suddenly, disrupted by powers, as to cherish experiences. I caught a vision, as to capture whispers,
while arts flourished through grime; to have this channel, as ablaze with
rites, to stir through passions this living. We often sleep—much needs for tilling, this
cryptic sol; to want for actions, a bit enthused, aflame through arcs; to feel
it rise, lost at oceans, while crucified dearly: this space at souls; that
portrait image; that screaming affliction.
(There’s a shift,
Love; this present force, disrupting motion; as to see her face, encased in
distance, as to arrive an hour late. It seems unfair, this outer flux, while
hearts remain so close; to die this evening, as to arise come morning, to feel
infused come nightfall; this cryptic occurrence—as pure effusion, while reason
that loss. I feel angered, this certain
frame, while pleased with compassion: this stealth by life; this inner debate;
our pictures merging in furies; to see contention, as charging convictions, to
ride immortal experiences: this force by power, as cleaving to reasons, as to
embellish a universe; that curse of souls, as seeking cessation, while worried
of those conditions; where life is joy, this ecstatic feeling, as it becomes
familiar; this active need, this rich afflux, while partial to a certain
passion; where deers roam, those meadows as pendants, while exercising this
pendulum; that mystic arc, flowing through branches, as to realize our roots;
that magnet pain, those febrile hoofs, this breach in personality; as chiming
with ghosts, enlove with arts, to envision this love as locomotive). I speak to mystery; this sudden awakening; as
born to powers; where motives glisten, as time would vet, this private
spectrum; as torn asunder, seeking knowledge, as to disrupt that course; while
mystics bathe, in pure those lakes, a bit oblivious. (I know a name, as baffled with feelings,
indulging a mystic ruse—while floored to chaos, attaining glory, with more for
hopes; but what for currency, this shift in lives, while near that sentence;
this crucial means, at courage a soldier, where hell is breaking lose? It comes
in parts, a bit disjointed, severing something sacred). I pause!
