Sunday, February 19, 2017
Triumph by Series
Such scarlet visions, probing his soul, to reach out to beauty; this
floating castle, stricken with purgatory, this inrush of pure energy; as holy
in content, while mystic at tiles, this ceramic daymare; while pierced at
bones, afloat this mischief, to reason as one insane—for more those truths, this
molten feeling, as poured upon pavement—that cry our love, a zenic massacre,
our brains mush’d into nightmares; whereto, proud to sin, unless for cornered,
as appealing those graces—this scar of souls, at war's effulgence, flushed
through by tenets. We’ve lived closets, perfected in disguises, our fleece
fraught with tremors—while born to chaos, our mothers rejected, at search that
midnight forgiveness: We’ve begged mercy, this elusive force, our bane
affecting our futures; whereat, this love, too rich for Love, as something at
parts destroyed; those vicious trails, those tracks through dungeons, as more this
fantastic sorrow; to hunt for arts, this amazing plight, where neither
understands glory—amazed by courage, this survivor’s instinct, those bullets
grazing through cymbals; that loud aversion, centered in those seconds,
wherewith, this fire to aflame a village; this fount of powers, streaming as
yogic that flight—this christic voice, as charged deeply, to ascend
descension—where truth is passion, this clash with men, as effused through
nights that trauma—or more descend through ascension, as curt to heart, adrift
a thousand seas; that tale of souls, that banshee vanished, that death
conquered—while more a triumph, discarding marsh, while abating misery—our
lithic souls, at fulgent turns, pulling as captured by zeal—whereto, are
trophies, that woebegone, as exploited for riches—to sing a drum-scar, that
wound to zillions, this inner zenith—as stars come mourning, that fleet of
nouns, as striking through eternity. We live as legends, this hawkish tribe,
adrift her ether—to find for reason,
that extent of pits, while clawing to trek high terrain.
The Psychology of Love
I remeasure a fact, love must always be rekindled. Such a simple assertion, enwoven with time. Most prominent brow. Neither sad nor happy....
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We take life for granted, it isn’t abnormal, nor easy—reaping conditioned crops. Shapeless furniture, hardcore philosophic, anarchy. Sweet...
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Sails are for seas, numen sights, an ancient albatross; about the neck, carrying memories, sudden into sullen holiness. To a distant tho...