Breath Never Conveyed Its Mystery

So ruined this mountain; so craved this justice; as mere a mortal—racing as seated, embraced by lights, as cursed by existence—this melted feeling, as something profound, this spark as breath our cadence; this daughter driven, her mother riven, this world watching—as lingering time, a magpie as a kite, a lizard as a harpoon; to cry those measures, at sheer an ant, associated with proverbs; to remember that word, as mere a thought, attached to memories. It should be gentle, riven asunder, our particles cleaving to chaos; to perish thrice, tending a black cat, slanted towards Wicca: that miracle as eyes; that challenger as souls; our hearts to glens that vacant valley; as soothed to beauties, at desire to merry-go-round, as mere an art of attractions; but stood he died, as craving infinity, those arcs to cherish with skies: that blackened soot, that ache as smaze, to inhale by lights that thunder: our broken courage, as to know this name, our furry exploding through courts; to reckon his soul, as damaged that death, at tears to adventure that first month—where tears spoke of others, that vicious soul, to have embedded shame; that shattered ecstasy, at pride returns, to give that part of self—at angles to prove worth, while kissing wings, to float by arts that shifted angst: to love again, this abusive love, if but to render self-pride. It’s hectic our nights, at dreams our mirrors—tomorrows a new day: that bridge of thoughts, this deep ingestion, this sober outlook: peering at justice, at cross that darkness, as to wander through ghettoes—this rich insight, to suture our women, as enduring from birth—while giving of love, as sacrificed to Jesus, as becoming holy villages: this person we sighted, while deep conversations, but a reflection of a neighbor’s soul; to have lived forever, accustomed to this body, while reaching this hex for unction; that faint anointing, that father’s curse—our mother’s affliction. It took to cadence, this innate rhythm, this man shot for torn by agencies—as turned his life, our daughters at war, so gray with time’s wisdom; to cast a voice, as fishing near harbors, this mixture of love through deaths; as born that mind, that teacher of ages, at kisses this rich melancholy; to embrace living, while shattered a ghost, agaze by this feral affection; for deaths come, while to ruin affections, where strength must prevail: this cymbal as wailing; this country of wise men; our purposes as driven into concrete; to see that voice, those cultic symbols, that miracle woman; to have our wounds, dipped in Clearasil, made perfect by breath.

Today We Feel, as if Transported through Thoughts

I feel us, Love, to designate terms, while something’s afoot. I, too, feel others, as if winds are meshing, to form fireballs, while pierced to science, as influenced by religion: this welkin glare, this flare of souls, this brook seated by mothers; where heaven gazes, aloft as intrusions, while guiding consciousness. We center in pieces, sectioned by love-burns, fleeing into travesties; as rendered our thoughts, this treble effect, those ripples cleaving to brains. (I’ll share a secret—this thing about souls, while unlocked through friction: that cold winter; that humid summer; this push through travesty as success; where arts are tentacles, as pain is fuel, as not to justify present contentions. It comes by grace—this word as velocity, our buoyancies as pillars; as born to shadows, roaming foreign lands, at cores searching for a place called home; but here’s a secret, home is heart—that ferocious vehicle—as said a riddle, by means to know us, at woes to see us). We linger in thoughts; we pillage sensations; we voice our cadence to winds—if but that arc, as losing to gain, at features but normal this chase. We see confliction, as to wander through principles, while words seem to lose texture: this fabulous voyage, as curved by perception, to compose as one lost to madness: this furious swan, at measures a genius, floored through fires this feral archery. I feel souls, this wave of thoughts, as temperaments shifts cadence; to sudden overcast, as more our hearts, this blend through minds; but truth lives, as more this ache, where souls create legacies. I run a risk—this thing of thoughts, while passions run at zenith: this torn effect, as deep affection, while at lose to realize core intentions: this deep challenge, as cultured by psychologists, as fevered through therapies; but this is pleated, this interior journey, while souls are resurrecting. It takes for dying, to have that wealth, where ours is constant resurrection; as born to pillars, this resting upon differences, while seated at mothers of wisdom; to ask for lights, while trebling through dynasties, to live by memories: this place of insights, to see with accuracies, this level of existence: to know by faith, or to render through science, our brains rushing through dominions. I see a swan; I feel a psych; I ache a mystic—but this is life, as mother churns, afforded this error in life. It comes by fate, if one is to believe—in such a word that robs us of control; to soon surrender, as working directions, this full participation; so smile eternal, at love this function, by grace those wings floating through kingdoms.

Mystics to Yogis

Our tragic nights, a bit complaisant, while laughter rumbles through waves; to see our mirrors, to frighten our souls, to ask of our dispositions: this cryptic moon, that cultic sun, our metaphors running amuck: those tiny fingers, at caress his mind, those colors spinning ecstasy—as seen in Sienna, as charged through London—our aches wrapped around words—at course to perish, thrown in rapture, our bodies shifting through pulsations; as agony sings, this dirge of joys—our melancholic bliss—as shadowed a man, or tender this woman—our souls yenning for altruisms; if but that flight, to feel passed human, this lot of brains as crucified. It becomes texture, our professors sipping liquor, our psychs evaluating altered states; to come that mountain, scribbling our deepest missives, while crawling into our memoirs: if seated that arrow, while cupid is vicious, to have tugged a heart by oblivion: this sheltered love, as wild as lemurs, this field of deep despair—as livid this curse that voice by arts, to suppose a curious future—where treasures are morbid, as time is aloof, this turtle abandoned to deserts: if music would heal—this majestic sunrise, our souls would be at peace that garden; but more are thoughts, awakened to cruelties, where unsaid flute was taken for normalities: oh for curses, flowing into Mechtild, rummaging through Gertrude—at powers to embrace Eckhart, our fingers trembling, as a universe bleeds—becoming this symbol, running as falling, where dungeons become immortal pits: our internal grayness, those beige twigs, but a perch for songbirds; to feel this art, at mercies to convey—this wealth of cadence; as never forgotten, planted in soil, our roots as fluid as our absence; that curse by memory, to have induced a fire, at tears that extinguisher: to instill a furnace, right above our cellar, while crying our banshee’s attic—those heinous chains, that inner ballet, those operas meshed into science: if but enrichment, our brows amazed, while yogis step to bat: this casual dream, as becoming sulfur, our caldron simmering unto madness; to push his soul, as cultic as religions, this measure by chance our psychology; to evade self, a moment to a mirror, a vision to trash bins—while born at dawn, to awaken at noon, as coming to resurrect by sunfall: oh for cryptic chi, as striving to buff mystics, while giving that thing that ruins: that incompleteness; that medieval reality; that churn by aches our misery; where passion soars, at needs for channeling, while broken through chaos; as more dreams, or searing friction, this absent moon.   

There’s Immortality

…as long to live, fitted in diamond hats, fettled to trespass…this ache by souls, our country vows, at value for something murky—this terrible justice, to crawl by bars—at levities something sincere; to have lost communion, by terrace those rebels, as running from mistakes: that default noun; at praise our mirrors; one left to confusion; but long those cries, as pleading more mercy, while at peace to perish this dearth; for days were hellish, as never to come, racing towards our cul-de-sac; as left this lime, scrubbed into wounds, abashed by carnal thoughts; as belonging to others, colored as affection, our psychs speaking of courage: if nights are chaos, this miracle sister, tugging while running through psyches: this vicious smile; that awkward grip, while studding a cryptic illusion; to find we couldn’t, while embedded in seconds, as to affect our futures. It comes as natural, to pop said bubble, while diagnosed as malignant: if but that moon, this inner tiptoeing, this cliff shadowed by vestibules: that broken hallway; those melting walls; that alley a fathom that right turn; as feeling muddy, or even grimy, but pure as immortal contagions. It came by absence, to stream by presence, where our samurai was done teaching: this outer dirge, dust by deserts, this rending of tunics—attacked by poverty, at wakes by breath, this catacomb inflicting justice—this taekwondo, at peace through Tao, at sudden to realize our heaters: if love to live, it shall never return, afflicted by passions; while spotted in London, or traversing through Grammar, this cold detachment: that fetid tomb, our bodies at ritual, while wrapped in herbs by spices. We know by miracles, while lurid our cries, at dreams this chorus—to defend our souls, divested of an empty promise, while too human to chase Jesus: as thought simplicity, while threshed by holiness, but too bold to witness an unreachable orchard; to fancy a tennis ball, as more compelling than a distant breeze, at tortures to forget investments; but if love is gentle, it shall never return, where fires are flushing through vineyards—this miracle blessing, as reaching our apex, as to climb by aches this endless ladder; where ghosts are mirrors, filtering by whetstones, this visage our souls threshed through academies; where love examines, that budding plum, verses that ripened peach—to see that light, as confusing flutes, this lute of mystics…if be it that death, by nature of rebirth, to sculpt passion by ocean tiles.     

Psychosomatic Minx

He was old, this early moon, tugging at ocean graves. He was silence, at war those warm waters, pinned to silken pages: those inkless memoirs, stationed in memories, our portraits on repeat. We become, screaming, those loud rooms, this man squiggling in a straightjacket: those bulbous dreams; that mirror at parts; those halves racing towards majesty—if but to mend, as cried his life, at tender affections with behavior; to see us writhing, at midnight lightning—this swan gluing popsicle sticks; as rift asunder, doodling upon cardboard, while pitching grapes. We examine pressure, a bit exaggerated, if but this disclosure; where mother hides, this inner caveat—his intentions as slipping his grasps: to meet such spirits, those outer parallels, as two remain strangers: to ponder his brain, while to examine her moon—those territories as forbidden crystals: while touching faces, at courage to succeed, where trauma becomes rocket fuel. They spoke a song, this rich melancholia—those joys relished in pure sadness—to cry his brains, this caved eclipse, at tender cries his soul: to aid this force; to curse his woes; to remember that faint attraction; where souls perish, for days are accounted, while fancies roam this Jewish desert. We cry this fire; we sing teleology; we vacuum metaphysics—this call for justice, as disturbed as ethics—our theologies revved into pavements: those tunic eyes; that mahogany bruise; our art becoming immersed—this portrait as scribbled, as chalkboards scream, where chess pieces become life; as running so fast, ever at arms-reach, while coddling cheetahs: this war of psalms, that inner negligence, that rash stemming through soil; to exhaust this feeling, beyond our cadence, while to accomplish said torture: that cryptic goodbye; that summer as new; those dreams as extinguished; where years waited, as thought that vision, made bold to cry, “Illusion.” He signed his woes, as to notice his leg, this flinching sensation; while to sit in patience, this inner sight, as thought his features; to see such love, beyond radiant stars, at courage his imagination: whereby, she spoke, slipping as a phantasmagoria. He thought distress, this vest of arts, those treasures as psychosomatic; to feel such tugs, this light through cities, this clown painted but crying; as charged his mind, this faint resilience, where pain would become music; this darkened room, as doors fumbled, while hinges squeaked: that bold confession, screaming at gestures, while onlookers sought to see that vision: that deep flirtation, as chattering lullabies, while pitching marbles: this rich legacy, to find survival, as said woman appeared.  

Many Are Dying to Escape

Open our night, to tremble such feelings, morphing through dreams—as screamed his mind, to find such sorrow, this created life—where mother staggers, bent through liquors, as driving this inkless bridge; there’s something there, as father left, while more that courage to fly: It could be justice, or pure neglect, or more this vicious woman. I know more for streets, our morbid behaviors, as cursed to tread this ghetto adventure: Oh for sirens; and gore for stories; this anger a trope for poverty. I know us dying, mixing with off-beats, this hope to adjust our baseline; if only that feeling, this wintry delusion, to hold by chase superior persons: This mangled impression, our neighbor’s keys, this board of mirrors raging at life; there’s something there, while something is missing, this us lurching obscenities; if but that feeling, this mirage called “normal,”—our off-beat realities; to crumble at loses, fueled as muddy, accustomed to mistreatment; this villain of souls, our mother’s dejection, as sore to souls while dripping mucus: Oh for deaths, while buried in dungeons, where life takes course to continue; as, nevertheless, this fury to perish, our beating screams, at souls this war his brains. It couldn’t be life, as cut to shreds, where our mirrors are laughing—as crucial this crisis, our swans accustomed—to madness this lake of colors—where behaviors are treasures, while persons dangle by fences painted justice; this webbish harp; this inner lump; while to insist, death begs its captive. I’m reaching memories, while remaining silent, a bit torn through beige gusts; to live as vanished, to know this plight, while to pardon father: This miracle semen, this bipolar madness, this gene as mingled with its twin. It shouldn’t be life, where treachery prevails, as only our cultures; to find us desert-less, as found without histories, or more defined by slavery: This cryptic insistence; our tragic locations; our needs through obscenities for receptions; this fury as driven, our souls as exchanged, while horses are running weighed in rages—that cage of justice, where hearts are caved, while pictures flash of our tragic comedies; this life of souls, painted as caricatures, lost to various fancies; this reptilian palm, forsaken to chaos, as to strip a soul of breath-flame. It comes this way, this inner existential, while trekking this outer tension; to traipse a star, by chance a thought, where said plight becomes a shadow; as forever to chase, while at love this person, hoping to escape our ghettoes; where voices dwell, as sirens sing, flipping through flashbacks.  

Kindred Sparrows

We adore mystery, agaze by Sophia, amazed by depth; this silent message, our Emmy performance, aloft this space of swans: those tender motives; that crazed optimism; those beige eyes—beaming as sunshine, at legacies our tortures, at tears our mourning. Here we are;—a bit pampered—enlove with that feeling; as told plainly, “This never as us, but ever as them!” I’ve cried this ache, spinning a color, ashamed of vexation; as affected sorely, to hear that cringe—our hinges squeaking insanities; where love was gentle, that exclusivity, this farce of virtues; but more to mystery, this deep chill, our walks speaking Shakespeare: this silent language, piercing souls, at hearts this infatuation: that cryptic woman, to carry Argus, our souls chalking outlines: if but a soul, this wilderness tree, as stuck amidst concrete—while surging abstracts, but framed in gravel, at tears our woes. It was ever midnight; our minds were grieving; but so distant our waves: I couldn’t rest; while wrested sorely; that sudden upon a name: We died this wave; painting misery; our fingers speaking sorrow: I heard silence; a leaf near rooftops; our burgundy souls minced in vinegar: We wrote havens, broke insanities, while calming justice.  I often stare, focused on abstracts, this slant by conditions; to utter this truism, pertaining to perception, our minds so aloof—as to have this feeling, as fully fixated, this inescapable sensation: those orbit eyes, grounded in psyches—that raft through yogis; to claim victory, while sullen a soul, as charged as Hemingway: that purple star; those cultic prickles; our minds trespassing! It was art to read it; this magnificent sin; as flushed through internal rivers: as metaphorical twigs; or pure musicality; those shapes as colors invading harmonies: where time was complaisant; while space was conforming; those treasures blurring artistic textures; as more to mystery, shimmering through hells, a bit more intelligent than prose. We sing in shapes, sighted but unseen, rehearsing this hearse of tragedies; as pure knowledge, this goddess of dreams, at tears that personality; while fully familiar, or torn as strangers, this deep comfort: while broken but whole; or whole but broken; as slaves appeasing an ink barrel. I would intrude, if time permitted, while charged to retreat: this castle of torments; this hellish paradise; this key to locks as transforming—to see our minds, at woes to exist, but fevered by existence—this pleated mystery, as kissing eternity, while at bars to address a subtle feeling. It should’ve lived, this hyper sensation, this déjà vu: our tragic arms, that bear to cages, where fangs become vicious; while terrified, Love, or petrified, Love, or fulfilled, Love—this inner paradox, fevered by a stanza, to see us leaping in agonies. I’ve lived such terrors, peering at ancient muses, while imagining similarities: that inner travesty; that childhood ache; or our Mystic Father—that Mother of dreams, our fire to souls, or more an asexual stream; to kiss by channels, this furious river, while balanced upon a Kayak—this Kodak moment, our sweat as salt, to leap by dams that silence. I awoke, Love—censored within, flipping through sculpted pages; as born to meadows, traipsing for drawing—our portrait mingled in oils—that painting of souls, as rifted by mystery, peering at raven mane. It couldn’t be life; our sainted souls; at mercies our inner therapies; as deep analysis, made muddy as shivers, to extinguish with hours our fears: that tragic comedy; those painted faces; our histories as distorted: that time in life, to rewrite stories, while offended by interpretations; but more this life, as chasing this poetic, our thetic encounters: this melic muse; this dream of screams; this deep chaos: as cordial waves, engraved in silence, forbidden this ache of poets; but more to fires, to see that face, those majestic eyes, as courted through self, pierced as charged, dying that instant of manifestation; to leap through catastrophes, while exploiting sorrow, if but to reach through turmoil—this mystic art, as splayed through parts, where pieces are composing—that inner literature, this rich affection, our souls as kindred sparrows.

Die At Wings

Is it sculpted, our energized hearts—knees to dirt flailing mud; this cryptic maze, even grandparents, losing so much; this touch of cadence, this christic outlook, that portal in souls our lights; to come to deaths, staring at daughters, wailing this disjunct; as nearing closer, as so far away, while deepened in mire. It could be gentle, but years are adverse—these hankies inducing prayers; this deep chasm, this time of illusions, that place at heart’s realities; to see a face, this pale queen, at tears for repercussions; as floored his life, as winning greatly, this sin by chance his deaths. It could be life, this fever to compose, gazing at violins; to have guitars, screaming of values, this man a segment of his father: this rich scar, as filled with treacheries, while accused of treasons. I love a swan, by sheer this measure, as opposed to rich encounters; to send a spirit, this volt through nights, while tugging at souls. I knew a mother, at love but children, to have voiced discontents; but chase I did, this thing of bodhis, swerving through guttered storms; this rich mire, this shredding of tunics, our souls enraptured dearly; to have that gaze, this nameless love, as afforded three more delusions. I’ve cried this life, feeling through tentacles, but a turtle through cities; this inner wave, as grave as ambitions, to have come so far—with little that praise, as accused of deaths, where accomplishments are mere mistakes. It should be love, as to have created a seed, where mothers are revealing treason; but more to cultures, stressing as poets, at heart a walking memoir. I saw a face, this glorious Sophia, to have treble a heart pattern: that centered gaze; those marble eyes; that tendency towards something abstract; or more to knowledge, this faceless face, as appearing in travels; to call our names, while fires’ amuck, this cadence as rich as intimacies; to enter life, shooting through scars, at bars to confess wrongness; but this is love, as love is dying, where unsaid souls reach for something new. It comes to pass, this chasm of souls, while preaching composure to a mirror. I love this love, as potent as parents, where unsaid specialized in sacrifice: this electric son; this furious daughter; as both court an inner paradise; to shoot through dreams, while catching visions, as born to exceed doubts. Oh for passions, our mortal minds, driven by immortality—to catch a gaze, at something beyond thoughts, while to return a vessel of secrets; that three year voyage, confirmed by mere studies, to embark upon this unseen voyage—while sights were pure, this rich cadence, to die at wings.  

It Came by Absence, as Pure Thoughts

We embark upon a voyage of mind versus actual reality: One concentrates on another person, the heart then thumps, and we wonder if this is that person; or more to features, as shared with millions, this space through pains, this wealth through drugs, this rhythm as an altered state of consciousness; where thoughts must be contained, this meditative non-thoughts, mobilized as sheer consciousness; as sudden a thump, as secrets are shared, by measure of this portal of consciousness. It is a bit esoteric; this other pleat, this space between mental colors. Enough of that!

I couldn’t contain it, as to have spoken in haste, while forgetting human instincts. We care for parents—we love for unions—this experience evolved through friendships; so mere communion—becomes cumbersome—while promise becomes electrifying. (These are mere thoughts).

But we must confess: there is a thin line between spirituality and sexuality. (Scholars endorse this thought, especially in theology; nevertheless, sheer experience speaks to this truism).

I miss communion, as soaked in communion, where certain techniques stand at attention; as given our souls, while flooded with dreams, where the wrong sentence may offend communion.

I’m soon to beauties, this creative flow, while staring at colors; this inner realness, as kissed theologies, where love assaults traditions. It comes this wave, while seated at a trestle, peering at sable-red eyes: this marvelous woman, at tears to circumstance—our wretched inheritance: this thing of knowledge, as becoming sensitive, for so much is reaching forward: this inner trespass, to become so aloof, as feeling manipulated. I cry as opposites: this credence of cultures, where said love could never shed its ghosts; because time is immortal, that repeated second, as realizing time is static by means of fluidity. But enough of that!

What shall one give, to be embraced, where unsaid persons need friendship?

It becomes this excursion, to fathom distance, where unsaid persons are quite selfish. (I run a risk here); nonetheless, what shall one give, if but communion, where unsaid persons are dissatisfied?

This is mere a rant, a bit concise, as parted by illusions. I shall explain. I have advanced through internal activities. I knew a presence; I felt a name; I verified this through spiritual operations. It came by storms; while it became historical; where it disappeared. (Caveat: I am not speaking of the latter person; I knew that this was temporary; instead, I am referring to one that communicated through a number of years: as speaking of something with great clarity: plus, I’m not angry: it was ecstatic while it lasted).

We live this way, as transported through portals, where ladders are replaced; notwithstanding, if offense was made, I regret this part I’ve placed. (We sense a disjunct; this miracle of souls; as powerful forces; to drift through time, making miscalculations, unaware of viable motives. While love is hearted, I apologize for ignorance, this thing of souls—where philosophies have swarmed, at terrors, where unsaid souls are searching for correlations: if but to fly)!  

By Association/By Heartaches

Hey Love—this deep enchantment, this river of rainbows—as peering at meadows, that cavalier stance, inhaling rose petals; to advents kosher, this planet of maybes, as cordial as darkness; this pagan soul, this Jewish Retreat, that inner Cabala—to see as wolves, as casual as rabbits, while lions roam our psyches; where love is patent, as born innately, this vehicle of torments; to chance survival, this minutia war, at course to sing of raspberries: that glorious vessel, as adorned in lights, those outer goosebumps. We praise the swan, as something delicate, while at heart a vicious spirit; to change by arts, this lance to souls, while our worlds fall enlove. It could be madness, or more this cycle, at tears our swan is singing; this solo pianist, as treasured a scar, while born of frantic flames; to cut through darkness, this glimmer of lightning, this bolt tearing through chimneys: that deep smaze; this fluid soot; this rainbow of lights—as piercing in segments, at sudden this glisten, to arrive as something primal: that furious fever; that electric thunder; this person within screaming for mercy; to come so close, as to lose that feeling, where archers afloat upon quicksand; to wonder of deaths, this breath of cadence, to have lived a mere soul. It could be fiction, as estranged from birth, as to wrangle with illusions; but questions remain, for one familiar, where said phenomena is factual; but more this chantress, this maestro of symphonies—our bedlights defused; to awash a fever, sitting in radiance—our visions a bit blurry; wherewith, this embedded opera, flushed in tears—that angelic candle; to poke at breath, or channel affections, while whispering for more insights: this agog feeling; this deep torment; this vibrant ember; to sing by hearts, at total stillness, a magnitude of activities. We envy the swan; our inmost love; as one of unveiled beauty: that rich convergence, that cryptic rapture, this fatigue by mere presence; to torture time, this cautious justice, as florid as feral fiction—where souls perish, as born to silence, while listening to a myriad of woes: that fulcrum of treasures, if courted by brains—our fable as featured in cinemas. We adore the swan, this thunder of ballads, where poets have given leg and limb; if but a glance, to chance this heart, adjusted by edges of insanity; as picklock’d deeply, arriving at this visceral feeling, at currency this richer existence: this swan by science, this study of behaviors, to garnish our souls with colors: if be it this life, this living ache, camouflage in aesthetics—afloat this dungeon of insights: those temblor kibitz, as deep epiphanies, while to discern this measure of fey—where souls flourish, as first to cherish, this deception of deaths: our bond as treasured, where love is sighted, our richest insights!        

Faith Expansion

By winds this unction, to perish by flights, while born to something subtle: that manifestation, as believing as unseen, that winter of hallucinations; to find particles, this advent to Christ, this other mind; to have died a soul, while to have lived a spirit, at forces this course of fires. We grapple with fey, by far a miracle, becoming face-value with fey: this cello of flames, this chi through brains—that mist transferring properties: as living lights, transported deeply, as acquiring habits—this soundless voice, at echoes our nights, this man of dreams—to touch by fingers, awakening to cold sweat, at pyramids this inner domain—as charged beliefs, to have felt it moving, this chest to chest war—our fatal flesh, abolished in arts, as to resurrect an entity; where treasures blossom, this inner chateau, as pushing mischief through crowds—our inner seams, threading our baseline, walking as treble energies. We float to fly; we flee to return; we encourage unbelievers: this more to life; those carnal beasts; at wars those daily musings. I knew it early, this zealous slant, while occupied with this other pleat—to erupt as spirit, sorting through illusions, to find this person another definition; as something similar, I dare say, “Dead on,” where powers speak of human activities; this shivering slight, as courage to receive, while convicted of our inheritance; this miracle light, as reaching for more power, where human slant appears limited; of course, this chase, bent on orientation, to have found by journey an inner portal; where fields chatter, plaguing through visions, or more something audible; to have confession, as seen astray, where said evaluator has conjured fey. It appears shaded—this thing we adjust (hide), by far that cry of mere perception: to control such power; to have such experiences; while to alter by vice another’s experiences; as becoming a rant, I’ll adventure boldly—this chi as fey those cryptic realities; to adventure this course, as shivers that portal, where unsaid wars are fueling faiths: that armoire of spirits; that memoir of voices; that trek through cities peering at spirits; to find this slant, as embedded in genes, while more for reason to challenge perception; this thing of ecstasy, where nurses jot lines, as affected fully that experience; while treading hells, or warring demons, as one pushed from behind; this manifestation, as accredited to minds, where said mind pushed its body: I pause to fathom, this exterior voice, while purposed to believe in spirits: this deep rapture, as transported through fields, at once, this wrangling with perceptions; where others chant, of psychosomatic arts, I dare confess this slant towards fey. It comes with time, as deep our wonders, concerning a brain pushing its body. If said is true, we wonder of velocity, this force expressing mutual pressure: that moment of physics, as adrift through portals, to realize weight exerts pressure: this need for value, as opposed to propositions, where a theorem is presented as truths. Again, we adventure, through this dungeon in minds, where one was kissed in spirit: that deep yearning; that turning through winds, while something held his eyes; this tale of souls, or this mystic nun, while charged by purgatorial arms: to vice by chance; or to voice through faith—a series of interpretations; as channeled through souls, at hearts for truths, while skeptic of evaluations; for it comes by souls, with mutual occurrences, otherwise, said experience becomes bizarre; as nonetheless, this deep convergence, our souls as blenders—our minds as fires; at tears for motion, trekking this steep mountain, atop a space enchanted dimensions: this walk as shortened; this voice but echoes; our dispositions as our evaluators.          

Humans Alter Other Humans

It’s uncontrolled, however, controlled, this lethal paradox—as grounded behaviors, morphing suddenly, those eyes that psych—where fire is majesty, this uncouth relation, as seeking correlations—while founded in thoughts, disposed to sensitivities, this promise to escape influences; as escaping self, this pure objectivity, while warped through sudden breakdowns—as bleeding perception, to nigh a brain, where intimacy is a false promise. It couldn’t be, this fated luxury, while sensing potential danger; as falling for love, this maverick of times, as to retreat to textbooks; or more this vixen, associated with traumas, as warped as this affection; to die through graces, as sensing that face, subject to pure insanity: this treasured soul, walking this pleated plank, as seeing self in correlations; this deep infection, as priced in therapy, where souls are one. (Forgive the misnomer; but insanity fathoms insanity; where clear thoughts offset diagnoses); so how for assessments, where one is thriving, while associated with a plethora of difficulties; this chase through life; as investigating features; where said features have entered our souls. It couldn’t be easy; this grit and value; where thoughts are rummaging psychoses; this found land, as pure intoxication, while drifting in and out—wherewith, are truths, this deep ability—to alter another being; through cryptic measures, as seen for powers, while averting the luxuries of profound miseries; this deep secret, as charged as Jesus, infusing a nation of souls: our likeminded flames; our detrimental traumas; this cadence of resonance within; to come to caves; as excavated dearly; while feigning this total detachment; as nearly said, we interrogate self, through this shield called others! I’m found in it, seeking this mystery, where said mystery is protected deeply: this furious fan; this electric socket; this wealth of pulling out traits—to defuse lights, a man stranded to others, while de-powered to maximum degrees: as morphing with strengths, this preferred power, as manipulated by towers. We must perceive, this inner transformation, as manipulated by others: if be it this legacy, as partly human, where practices influence change; with change comes temperaments, as such contain powers, while an altered temperament alters powers. It becomes transparent, rummaging through psyches, tugged at by something disgruntle; that inner delirium, that force of hearts, that fire morphing into a kingdom; as charged transgressions, by human standards, where unsaid humans are clearly powerful; as, wherewith, alarms, to comport to certain laws, while feeling exhilarated. I ask a question, concerning this mortal danger—By what practices must the in crowd abide? It becomes haphazard, aside this inner compass, where power is said to corrupt; as more for wars, as more rejuvenation, as cryptic this art within; to see such eyes, perfected at hiding, where unsaid thoughts perceive a threat: this fuse of legends, as esoteric, at comforts with weaknesses.        

Porcelain Souls

It could be life, this cage as scarred—our bars celebrating; as tested dearly, as losing dearly, as winning dearly; this portal this crime, as pieces of spirit, scattered across Malibu; that inner dream, those powdery lines—that elephant to a contour; as knowing screams, wretched by bruises, while laughing through crises. We fever life, received as foreign, as aliens our souls; to love with vengeance, our cyan cymbals, chasing forever such stardom: this chilly wave, as wading through misery, those invisible contracts; to capture cadence, invested in souls, a rift by shine—our inner swans: that perfect grace; that perfect pitch; that coin flipping as prophecy; to chant by Christ, as flooded that dream, racing through desert cities: this calm danger, suspicious of life, warring psychotic features: where days are treachery, as psychs are vicious, this need that constant yank.  But let us breathe;—this kingdom of sadness, proud of such features—to have died a man, or even a child, through legends, this peril; to journey mother, this tenfold addict, broken for bleeding steel—that court to die, as puffing blue cities, while charged at life another red city—for cringing breath, this kef of freedom, steep a sewer as salient;—a majestic cry, a welkin sore—our canyon sprouting fevers. We frantic years, conditioned to travesties, fishing as falling—this life as serious!; where brains are plural, fraught with multiple worlds, to unfold tyranny; as never he lived, by eyes to havens—refusing gray matter; as still to love, those romantic scars, leering at turquoise skies; where time is shifting, at which, are furies, to chance this fire: that terrific force; that marvelous curse; that voice by angst through deaths; where tides are burgundy, this flipping of whales, this sea as sickness to squirrels. We flurry to live, to ride this gurney, pulled by tears this person’s screams; as fated towards justice, this coming of times, as receiving our inner worth—where souls grackle, this crackle of births, at speeds those deeds of men; to vacate hearts, as torn through terrors, where pains devastate future prayers. We tarry to die, this rabid soul, at course to ruin a nation; as treasures fly, to net a brain, where love is tested; but flights are cherished, this stint of tragedies, as psychs strategize; to fever this light, a box of dreams, a dungeon breaking skies—to rain his life, at death to love, as feral as meerkats.          

(Oh for segue, those cherry eyes, those beige feelings—to know that heart, a felt reverse, to courage a nightmare; that facial presence, that tweak of sky-eyes, that deep concentration; to have won life, this bird at wings, our flipping to flopping through airwaves). 

Strange Reality

(Maybe our tragedies, to assume that person, this freezer by curses—as sheer design, or haphazard music, while curled in multiple knots): that organ grieving; that mental slant; our inheritance—while born through tears; either love or woes; this false dichotomy; (our contrite tunnels; our blissful tragedies; this fire by storm as optimal)—to send for courage, as to awaken grayly, that treasure a nudge lethargic: this person as intrusion; this person as mirrors; this sense of disconnection—(where cravings conflict, this center as orbits, or more this fleeting mirth)—to come to portraits, our eyes with rivers, agaze by beauty; where passion cringes, as towards our mirrors, while at joys this withering forest: (as more sensations; or reaper thoughts; as religious atheists)—to courage by venture, such chaotic orders, to wander by arts this paradox: our rich accounts, or maybe for bankruptcy, or maybe this void of images; to love that smile, while extracting strengths, to hug by mercies that force: (as shorn our souls; or wimbled our minds; while we attempt to define existence): at search that correlation; or soft that universal; to transcend by waves something trite; as crushed at seasons, or near a sky-wail, where cycles become excruciating. (I feel detached, to have chased dispositions, to have jarred butterflies: our colored eyes, our mourning fingers, as more this tinge to prose; or more a poem, at dear desires, as rare that correlation; to perish by grace, drawing our faces, racing through every line); while gaining age, this inner discussion, as forming his countenance: that squared lake; that fluid dryness; that spaceless sky; to caress a dove, as more conditions, watching as winds push doors—to hear that slam, as rattled in cages—this open space. (I’m running by fasts, a shadow to chalk, our stark afflictions—to come to terms, attempting to keep her, at wells this leaping); where souls flourish, this cryptic light, wrestling by definitions: this inner torpedo; that calm nothingness; that spasmatic ripple beneath that surface: without comforts, aside for concentration, to become haywire with nearness. (I’m treading parallels; I’m walking planks; I’m avoiding untruths); as one to live, even as to perish, by chance to have found joy; or this semblance of light, this rich honeymoon, at practice that fire.     

Trekking a Japanese Garden

I’m deep in shadows, feigning as nonchalant, to miss what came by years: this feral flower, restricted by morals, at nights this urge for fires; to come to justice, kneeling in agonies, prepared to perish by swords: this sheer conviction, as hell would reign, by arts a woman doing justice: those concrete rivers; that fluid sky; that abstract ocean; at travels to live, a bit for dangerous, our minds filled with poisons—or even weeds, as hacking roots, by pains to separate harvest—this wealth of tension, to surrender pages, while musing interior life; to find another, while something mystic, to receive that feeling. I’m deep in nights, adrift NIghtcalls, feeding an inner parrot—racing towards solace, our gates grieving, our spirits bleeding—as seething injustice, this formula for toddlers, while needing to adjust formerly. I see a specter, hovering by habits, while becoming normal; this rich injustice, as losing powers, this miracle of sober reality—as flaming glory, this immortal freedom, something again to pain that gentle heart: those mental meadows; that cello of violence; this rupture concerning facts; to see this chasm, as sudden an ache, where said chasm is justified. I’m growing weary, of suggesting thumps, where said inquiry kills our fury: to grapple with facts, this illucid world, gambling by seams of improbability—to miss that ache, where times are raw—this soul stressed by normality: as casual grins; this fitful occurrence; our thrall as something to trek away from—as sordid through justice, awake through cadence, this want to say it plainly. I’m mere a seed, at rights to investigate, while hungering for something a bit unhealthy: that undergrowth; that deep possession; this bane by arts causing joy—as deep paradox, this inner axiom, as missing that frenzy. I must go deeper, as one deluded, by charms to believe in pure altruism; this contradiction, if times were gentle, where said this, is not unsaid that; while deep in trenches, tugging by aches, aware when something is missing; but never return, as one favored for sympathies, but rather as one as sheer communion; this place in souls, where sails have casted, while running through oceans; to waltz by grace, at tales this agony, where ours becomes richer for running—as sold to powers, while feeling sullen, this want for something that proves harmful: or mere that thought; or mere that possibility; while never to embark upon that journey; as taking this thing, where thoughts were aligned, if maybe by chance we could extract that feeling. I think too much, fumbling as to catch a glimpse, where age has become its torment: this series of promises; this inner kiss, this wisdom by pains our deliverance; as something subtle, where life is colors, as to feel a tinge of heartache; while thinking of self, this selfish slant, as something removed from streams; but what of madness, this thing called life, as something may be troubling a welkin soul—as to increase absence, that yearly churn, this aria a solo voice—to come to grips, as reappearing, this ride as partly instrumental: maybe I ramble, aside for plain thoughts, while hesitant to address this abstract reality; where lions bathe, that furious river, while tigers approach our spirits: that night I needed it; that turn towards sadness; that ache as knowing such presence—that sheer enrapture; that spellbound trance; that inner dimension as needing to give credit; but what are men, this inner visitation, while churned adrift a turquoise sky: as sweeping quicksand; or dancing our rainstorm; this sign as forming symbols. I’ll speak it plainly, this want for communion, while this want to sense wholeness; as worried in parts, while knowing existence, a bit leery of speaking concerns; so more to flowers, those lilies at moons, those roses at stars; to charm through graces, as disappearing, to measure needs; but never that sun, as ever that radiance, those circuits to other souls: this animation, our crazed souls, at odds to speak about desires: that nonplus entity; that miracle joy; our souls as soaring!

Feathers Adrift by Skies

By grace we fly, inhaling sirens, this contrast between sights verses ambitions; as souls with wings, our minds as engines, shifted in parts by existence; to arise eternity, this endless friend, by thoughts this mystic force: surging through winds, forsaken to islands, by chance that distant furnace—where souls dream, this catcher of visions, abandoned to something hopeful: our curious fevers; our enflamed hearts; this travel by vortex an arc—as telic designs, dancing before fires, at moons this mental séance—to course eternity, tugging at immortality, as driven this beautiful smile: those cadent ripples; to enter his soul; this dance around something caprice—to face adventures, at courage to fly, while steeped in murky marshlands.  I remember wisdom, this fetching mayfly, while perusing this outer person; where distance prevailed, this wall of madness, while peaking from podiums; to cry by justice, as feelings soared, this magic by rites a torpedo: that foolish trespass; those midnight songs; that retreat back to caves; to live as sullen, while to muster up courage, where yesterday influenced survival—this chasing of waves; this canvas of doves; our achy minds fettled by thoughts; to come to mystics, afloat this bubble, as to circle by rights that sphere—as time returns, shifting through minutes, this wealth a kiss of utterance; to declare as holy, this feral atmosphere, as close as two could be distant: that inner soul, as an outer force, coursing through cosmos; to ache a heart, while infusing a soul, this call for something restricted; that broken gate, that squeaky hinge, those fences near our hunches. But oh to fly, partly under siege, racing through fields—as born to breathe, seasoned by mentors, aflame these feathers of miracles; to have our rites, or to feel such fevers, revved by arts this inner carnival; where mothers watch, frantic by intuition, prepared to perish if called; this trenchant paradox, while convinced by motives, our songs adrift this inner portal; where confliction stirs, by root a force, while daughters wrestle for identity.  I’m a soul by flights, steered into faraway lands, peering at a series of souls: that electric power; that fallen cry; or more those triumphs out of rising skies; to see those faces, born through passions, at wars to live righteously; where children sing, as angels of life, imbuing our souls with strengths.     

Midnight Wings

By virtue our songs, that fulgent nuance, by travel our dreams: imbued hopes; extravagant visions; that arc through intelligence—as seeing faces, that something so subtle, afloat a Grecian cloud; to hold eyes, by mental palms, reading our projections—as correlated with time, a field of fireflies, our agonies reaching for love: that treasured inrush; that second for peace; that shift in dimensions—to sing silence, our unsung ballads, our Tao as speaking through shivers—this river of lights, our zenic delights, our mystics as tugging at skies; to know for happenstance, this wealth of circumstance, our romance as gripping gates—to adventure this chance, our fleece as sensitive, charged through sorrows our chi. We awaken in parts, to have that feeling, enchanted by our extractors—that inner letter, spinning by pivots, our tremors speaking by myths—that story we sold; that eager response; as to address us as zealots—those categories, if we dare utter differences, while probed this light that status quo; where demons are memories, those hawks above, tugging for yanking at subtle moods—to want definitions, for this odd abode, while trespassing Wisdom’s Domain. Oh for midnight wings, a unicorn made magic, adrift by fires those parallels—to dream softly, appeasing leviathan, at reach this dragon of cries; to awaken gently, fingers to eyes, reaching for bottled water: to chance those feelings; that sudden capture of ether; our moods shifting through ether: as wings expand; as dream-visions ignite; while vineyards produce exotic fruits: to have that dance, whittling a myrtle tree, peering at a sensitive soul—as acquired through reason, or gifted from parents, or honored through sentiments—that agitation, while feeling gullible, as others swarm in a hive of bees. It’s gentle our souls: It’s harsh our souls: It’s a memoir plaguing our hearts—to sing of softness, this kiss of whispers, feeling by trickles our ghosts—this lavish assertion; this crying moon; that downcast through murk that sudden joy: at peace with love; at woes with darkness; while to shift through tunnels that magic; where mothers roam, while fathers admire, that turbid countenance to glisten—at once a miracle, sorting through confetti, abandoned to this inner pendulum: that multitude of feelings, as winged to fly, addressed by banshees: our filtered hearts; our filtered dreams; our fires as magnetic—to drift by passages, this felt appeal, our tragedies as kneeling by gates.  Oh to dream—of midnight swans, pieced through measures as midnight days; our captive limbs, fleeing through brains, as soaring through mountains—as far again, this light of yogis, while chiseled through affections—to come to earth, our alien souls, to have pardoned our births; that welkin dream, as assorting worth, while to speak to something esoteric: this play of hearts; this mental orchestra; this health through streams our adventures; to hurt a soul, by chance that fate, as to become estranged forever; this morbid song, as fate’s piano, our flutes seeking harmony.  It came with time, this tragic affair, as to face-wash those delicate intimacies—where love was gentle, as wings expanded, our fount pouring forth gold; but hell is us, our indelicate forces, seeking to live while untaught: We merely station in life, offered little guidance, finding ourselves fending as animals: this wealth of heartache, at this juncture time for again, at tears to adjust our ceiling mirrors—this deep asperity, as reality’s harshness, adrift this painful portal; but more to wings, as believing our songs, filled by life this immortal passion—as screaming expansion, filled with fires, at love this voice: to end in ecstasies, this life as lived, to pass to seeds a legacy.          

Symmetry

We design this way, fevered at warm baths, reaping our dearest epitomes: that salacious gait; that intoxication; those cryptic rays as forbidden; to thread our souls, with languishing grammar, as if troubled our pardons through ecstasy. We forbade this way, our mothers screaming, while warring at this dangerous soul; wherefore, our roaming brains, chained to sights, linked through in prisons—to have that churn, that forbidden friction, suffused by honor that collapse: this trace of weather, our showers steamy, her towel wrapped tightly—as seducing steam, this see-through image, affected richly by aesthetics: our mystical Rembrandt—our fevered Van Gogh—our schizophrenic Picasso, as dear that light, this pale validity, while agaze by such features; as Raphael’s muse, or Schumann’s insanity, or Wolfgang’s poverty—these filaments of woes, or sheer ecstasy, while we forbade justice: that artifice of souls; this cruel existence; where one is chaste to lie—those putrid lagoons, or mahogany ducks, flapping as sentenced to madness. We come to tears, to sense distorted wisdom, this kingdom of morbid activity—as piercing lungs, wailing for mercy, as rapture engulfs our sinister souls: this world of judgments; our biochemistry; our pistons thrusting neurons—as more to thoughts, this want for cores, while to shed a decade of indiscretions; this space of woes, as never so gorgeous, to feel for prisons—this aching shiver, flooded by receptors, those eyes lusting for fleetingness; where babies are cherished, this twofold woman, at wars this inner omen—to deliver passions, as never he felt, while rooms become lonely. We come to souls, our membranes at flights, as weighing our merry-go-round: this inverted ocean, to waltz through aches, our inverted sky-dance; where souls love, as seeing our flaws, captured by this soreness; as stark madness, this kiss of tides, our islands inverted into flames—as welkin screams, as never this passion, knitted through molecules our fevers. We love this way, carving marble tombs, our souls by glance those catacombs: to love her dearly, as so psychoactive, fleeing doubts this needs for certitude: our dying confessions; our mothers in urns; such as mania that ecstasy to light—as shifted moods, to hold our palms, given to love ‘til death.

Beloved Fire

Through rivers this flow, as standing eye to brow, downstream our orchard; as polite souls, at hunger for passion, at seasons for love; this feral appetite, our insatiable loins, while captured at an impasse; to anchor sensations, chosen for rising, outspoken our belly of beasts. We trek hemispheres, aloft synaptic gaps, tiptoeing with ghosts; to have our dreams, stippled in apricots, crocheted in beating hearts: that inner symphony; that outer theatre; our verses kissing immortality—to arise as phantoms, our silent rooms, as furniture slips for sliding—as songs invert, where pigeons bear witness, leering upon windowpanes; but why for deaths, this chief of detriments, at wings agaze by cherubs; where puppets are puppeteers, tugging at tunic threads, building shadows in ivory grays; to have such love, peppered in chaos, our disorder a rabid fantasy. We’re choice to live, an orchestra to a soul, coming to hearts at such distance; to become fire, seething at fusions, alert as caution flees—this blueberry soil, our raspberry leaves, those oranges so sweet such nectar; to fall by sword, dangling midair, to arise a phoenix that rush. It had to live us, this buried breathing, at cadence this erratic missive—as loving forever, frantic for flame, to pass by chance that instant touch; as souls cherish, this want of tears, while brains dance to prose; for more that life, those loquat eyes, as souls shiver sensations. We had to live, our pace as snails, to rev by arts this grieving engine; at cliffs for sails, to leap through arms, as two descend as parachutes; to awaken from dreams, screaming at chaos, tossing pillows at mirrors; for love has drifted, this powerful soul, at aches this vision by nights; to seek for closure, as finding pandemonium, or rather a pantomime illustrating poetic justice: this beige world; that middle stage; this urge for glory pulling us nigh; but days are losing, while evening is tithing, to come to pains this recession.  It churns a soul, as begging for personhood, to realize we never left. It was more a season, where anger was worry, as tears broke through as metaphor; this deep silence, as filled with awe, to imagine this lonely shadow—where hell is rich, as casting contracts, if but to possess this mythic gem; as never he could, this sick insanity, this hassled fire.

By Habit

They enter hearts, such barefaced silence, concerned with cultics—or more towards sorrows, as sensing divisions, founded in unities. It’s sheer reverie, our young souls, sipping mystique mire; to elude mirrors, exploiting kef, at seconds, fraught disaster—to die that breath, awake at parish, fuelling an exorcism: as knitted fatigue, a season at fires—courted brains as mystic shamans—invested in winters, creating blizzards, to mesh a dragon through fevers. They speak it softly, as laudable souls, too engrossed that deep belief—as kneading science, or religious instincts, this blend by treasures, iconic—as furious deliverance, or mercy that hatred, to give by arts this affection; where souls sparkle, this altered event, to outwit a percentage of destinies. It’s deep a debt, while pure an anger, at haste this pensive position; as cried his nights, feeling abandoned, at deaths to confess improvements; where mother churned, as father sailed, a vest sealed in hexes: this charm to souls, that livid disposition, that carefree vex-appeal. They die at wars, as noted otherworldly, to listen closely: Oh for memoirs, buried in psychical safes, at which a key comes by flame—that inner kiss, to produce a tome, by rites this vicious retrieval. I became young, this vessel of darkness, at wrestles a holy force—this curse of souls, as mystic vessels, speeding at silence, our God. Oh for pictureless, or unphysical—this catch as invading our calmness; that terrible backlash, that inevitable evidence—our natures at war—as not his soul, but something tugging, as grandmother unlocks a velvet box: at tears we climb; peering at magicians; enlove by charms this inner vehicle—to writhe in agony, at cryptic possession, this treasure at war: chiseling wainscots; anticipating battles; at shifts to remove that principle. I do confess power—ever in motion, floored to concrete, those nails; where days are darkened, while nights are sunshine, as more that esoteric wisdom—to envision a phantom, or imbue a ghost—those hours feuding through trance; as oh for mercy, those laudable souls, as haunting horrors!

If a Decade Grew Wings

I whisk for love, ever ambitious, losing by graces: this face of madness, our pious ambitions, bathing in glacier waters—as more purgatory, touching as dying, pulling shards of glass—as never he cried, a quake as a qualm, such melodic redemption.

This spotless lure; this casual attraction; to become so treacherous; while left to guillotines, seeking after shelters, removed but found grieving. We spittle irony, this puzzle of souls, this puddle of paradox; as chiming eternal, rinsing red eyes, our gusset as bleeding through stitches: this horror of qualms; this life we need; this mystic maze—as much a habit, our maxim as pure, our cymbals as brazen: female magicians; male knitters; as both removed unjustly; this forbidden cry, as grieving habits, while dyeing appetites; to lose color, this absence of love, while channeled as Pyrrhic: that inner music, as singing eyes, this market-brain of sorrows.

Every stratum a daymare, as gripping ribs—misery unto atoms; to compose a nightmare, or a celestial photograph, to construct a touch of unbelief; as never he begged, but ever he pleaded, eager to believe. It struck a soul, those metaphysics, that teleological expanse: where minds grieve, that ascetic dance, bent through pressures of contrition.

We came for justice, alive our torment, to embrace as dying: that ancient song; that luminous chaos; our bodies withering in passions; as ever for justice, this ache of redemption, as seething injustice: that pure pathos; that shaky ethos; our logos as troubled amore; to flee transgression, as never they lived, forbidden through death that sun!

…that driven life; that order to chaos; that enamored retreat: to perish thrice, our keystone confliction, where songbirds mourn.

Years have settled; passions have grounded; we’re abandoned to apparitions.

I grip a voice, as to construct our winds, while inventing fire; this web of activity, to sigh our names, a fist full of earth; this treasured soil, this deep intrusion, our pardoned reflections; where beauty flames, as coming into bodies, this rich contortion—where souls vanish, as fleeing ambitions, if but to protect such futures: this twilight symphony; this tremulous ghost; our seconds as screaming, “Please!”

A decade is near, as never to channel, while souls adjust—to more that angst, fleeing mirrors, while roaming this land of ambitions—where arts flourish, as fingers compose, aligned with passions, infused through emotions; as fraught fatigue—spells abracadabra, our worlds visit that touch; our strengths abolished, as far too late, tugging at a scented second.   

‘Things’ Felt

It becomes twilight, reading of swans, at wars with father: It becomes heartache, desiring affection, from a woman estranged: to shift a feeling, with drilling souls, embarking upon a sullen day: flowers are mundane; gravel is metaphoric; this strange soul could help: where motives churn, this yonic strength, pictured at trains in vases. I awoke with visions, something tangible, this want to write. I wrote a piece, something haptic, where unsaid eyes affected our turns. I must imagine, a silent soul, gripped by disposition; as moving currents, while pushing moods, as a bit deliberate; else, to sorrows; or more to angers; while musing intentionality: this wistful fuse, racing towards peace, at churns to acquire said peace. We dare impose, as souls with powers, at wants for something unreal: that livelong joy; that perfect parent; that shiftless ecstasy—where souls live, as dying in happiness, to sense a disjunct: that harsh father; that critical mother; such souls intruding upon existence; as living our lives, to place us on mute, this thirst for certain kindness—as spoken in vain, a flute to sea, as charming leviathan; where softness comes, through a foreign soul, as to want unsaid discourse: this steep distance, grounded in reality, while unreality speaks of healing. I’m proud to feel, this immortal power, as it aims at sorrows; where sadness morphs, this vicarious misery, as our mirrors are distinctive: that inner chide; those rejoicing cries; that want for a gentle palm; as born this life, amazed by father, in awe of perfection: our projected thoughts; as more those needs; while to hear encouragements: this chorus of forests; those private mirages; that tent containing articles; where guilt is heavy, agaze by mother, while desiring a sense of texture: as silence speaks; while received by justice; where a person is treated as a daughter. We live this island, filled with toxics, while spinning through pretenses: to see a soul, striking at nerves, but far another world. We die those waves, as to shift a soul, while too far to gain comfort: if but to unbox; if but to breathe; if but an unshackled emotion—this miracle feeling, as sensing absence, for it lives that it dies; this cry of passions, this outer snare, that moment a tender father. I sense strength, boxed in anger, as too stern to reach; while living approvals, whereat, are terrors, wherewith, are concerns: ambivalent tiles; this musing at letters; this striving with parents.    

StarGirl

It was night-gaze, this plural event, to ponder a young swan;—this miracle gaze, seeing as falling, to conjure a feeling;—where souls dwell, this furious stream, as born electricity. I saw visions, as coming to lady-hood, pining for Peter Pan; this ivory stone, a hidden name, this glory by nights. I give us wisdom, as given wisdom, tugging at icons—to pull our souls, racing into mystics, arriving an hour early; to praise by hearts, to live by signs, to have this song; where swans conquer, as chiseling petroglyphs, as arousing an inner fire; to love by grace, tugging a sleeve, creating a myth: that sister’s soul; that eagle’s spirit—somewhere a sub-brain. We chase like that, as to upstream like that, as to build a dam: those mental beavers, seething with vengeance—attacking life; to scream this portrait, a series of mouths, dining at our Last Supper. I caught a ladybug, to free a lady-star, but a satyr at heart; this cryptic war, addressed by ghosts, peering at phantoms, those skies as apparitions; where swans linger, as arising thunder, shuffling through a credenza: those long vignettes; that curious prose; those letters as striving arts; to dance so freely, a volt as confirmation—this sullen spell as wisdom. I heard a whisper, to tug his brain, at course to float alive: where swans conquer, as filled with glee, while balanced through rains. It should be life, this inner inquiry, to feel every shift: our chances, Love; our arts, Love; our music, Love;—as furious dreamers, even vision-catchers, agaze by sky-fevers; where Love is serious, a seed to a plant, our warmth to a storm; to invade self, tugging at memories, as wiping a flame. I called a Ghost; I plagued a Spirit; it was life our scars that victory; to achieve lights, while dipped in gold, a trophy as an atrocity—for love is strain, where days are fantasies, as becoming a star-girl; so more that voice, as channeling fires, while steeped in wisdom.     

Seeing Energies

By hearts our flame, such fuel our days, immersed in nowness: too religious; and too profane; living our contradiction; to point a finger, leering at ourselves, captured by voice that second; to realize love, as born through struggles, our palms held as confusion; this leave of souls, this excelled dwelling, our pits filled with emotions; as cried his life, seducing Sophia, purposed as betrayals those hidden trainings. We sighted fury, bleeding recovery, peaking at noontides: our moon tugging; our senses explosive; our seconds as minutes morphing into hours—to dream by shadows, as silver our burgundies, while beige our screams; to flow as abstract, as silence is concrete, to remember you left first: this fair sorrow; this mischief odor; our sweat becoming offensive: to weep by willows; christened in baptism; our nights by windows that butterfly—to see us perish, as living such prose, by grace this fire seeking forms. It’s existential: It’s metaphysical: It’s teleological—these screams of souls, flipping by ollie, this intensive wave—as treasured our gems, this fair sorrow, to sense that unneeded presence; as doves cry, this music by madness, to want more of your soul: this wailing forest; our autumn meadows; this covering seeping into emotions; to sigh a prayer, leaping as an instrument, this axe circling our souls; as hacking sternness, or kissing joys, while purpose poses as a posited theorem. We feel distracted: We live through infusions: We beat to drums that chase fleetingness: this powerful chiding; this bridge to wounds; our rivers as coursing into ambitions; to love by rain, this rising lily, while voiceless at seconds that endless trumpet: our daughters singing; our mothers at archery; our fathers igniting kilns. It could be life, this woodcut love, while flitting through harsh realities; to chance this heart, by art this fury, where we meet by fires: that glass of lemonade; that sombre gaze; that sober response; to grip by palm; those midnight blues; at wars to extract that feeling; where gestures are gothic, while volts shade thunder—this nowness plaguing our intentions; to bungee through prose, this falling by grace, where arisen our souls as cultures—this mystical dance, as pulling towards reclusion, while peaking a song by fevers: that deepness through gusts; this feat of souls; our brains leaping into concentration.     

Poets (Writers)

We came for converse, this small ocean, purified by tears. We came to live, a bit choked up, speeding through syllables; as eyes were taupe, debating something despicable, or more something human. We cried perfection, an alien as legacy, agaze by psychotic wiles; to take courage, our bodies groaning, our souls crawling; to want adventure, too course to converse, as easier becoming naked; as giving birth, shadowed in miracles, a bit complex our senses. We watch those persons; that shift by turns electric; while nervous to express an inner burning. We’re casual fools; intense liars; at search a perfect storm: that shattered vase; that skipping album; our steaks with onions that floor; to love as cannibals, too shallow for church, and too religious for sin; this wave as life, accustomed to wickedness, while agaze by midnight purple. It could be roses, those orange stems, and that maroon petal: It could be armoires, carved into human brains, and a diary bleeding our truest intentions; as mere control, gnawing for scratching—this testament for societies: that dungeon of cries; that prison of lusts; that gait to pause collapsing forward. Our moons are vocal; our sun is burgundy; our forks tap upon a trestle; to spin our lives, afforded one last dance, while cultures paint our portraits. Its diamond earrings; a necklace of pearls—both to culture a garbage disposal: as living by fire; or bathing in jam; while water speaks to baptismal; to have that secret—“It shall not be taken”—running through caves carving proverbs: this chest of heaving; our sweat to jars; that bath of beaded soaps; to curse our joy, these fools as poets, our music sung to Sophia. It couldn’t be gentle, as becoming mundane, too impressed with chaos: our days on and off; our prose bleeding aphorisms; our souls grieving our humanity—to die a tad bit, in order that verse, or dying for curses our devotions. It shouldn’t be magic, pelted by brains, asearch an extraordinary voyage; but love for churns, this cadence of fools, while entrenched in signs and symbols. We laugh to feel it, or die to control it, this fury as testing our penmanship: that wail to wolves; that coniferous forest; our shadows as becoming plural; to sing of justice, our unjust wiles, as living deaths to compose: this wave of violence, as seen perfected, to sit through furnace cries—this walk of demons, our inner dimensions, pulled as tugged that inner voice; to have emotions, streaming intellect, as to courage a midday storm: those sincere eyes; pleading for understanding; while begging our distance—or asking of mercy, this convoluted nearness, where crows offer comfort; to perish by living, our mirrors as detrimental, while feeling this evasive person.           

As Youngsters Love

Such as damage, unclear that vigil, attracted to danger—that furious love, agreed insanity, that walk through marsh; as filthy money, a pail of tears, gripping as pulling as frying. We saw it lust, begging for falling, attracted beyond scales; to love so savage, this constant approval, longing where fires destroy. We met as angels, while so disturbed, lying as to witness approval—this famous role-play—forbidden justice;—while dear that cry, aging through violence, our souls as captured; to die a pulse, beating through measures, as serious our affections; that more to mercy, as entered his life, to appear so awkward—as California, this tale of woes, or stardom by fame that rusted. It could be magic, if souls should perish, as buried in faith—that crucial measure, our colors explosive, this beauty as gore as electric—to feel this vest, straps tugging flesh, our pull through bars that justice—or more that pillow, containing screams, as to whisper our dreams—as less as kosher, our hassles in jars, a fly as buzzing through screens. Oh for coldness: Oh for warmness: Oh for this mixture; to cry our purpose, holding unjustly—this deep confliction. It told us tarot, this flashing of faces, adrift for dripping suspicions—that seated calm, that anxious wiggle, those constant yawns—to fly by mirrors, pleading for peace, at pace to chase tomorrow; if more those lies, our souls to God, as seldom he leaked honesties. We knitted fever; so alive as breath; speckled in traumas our art—to flip through time, a vase to a window, as hundreds were spent. It would be life, too young to love, as too old for wisdom: this chase through life, as never so pure, leaking into honesties; to ruin composure, our bleeding eyes, as casual deaths—afloat this garden, that Japanese rose, that Chinese tulip—that second she died, at course his love, pulling as yanking as to ravish heaven—or more that season, undressed as lost, pleading fires.      

Let the Future be Gentle

It’s lyrical excitement; poetic justice; even that side of fences;—to change by lights, for something precious, as to inflate infractions. I’m a cold jaguar, haunted with demons, screaming towards a pillow. I’m a vampire, gnawing through blood, unaware of consequences. I’m a dying man, framed in prose, wrapped in three scores of turmoil: our generation at wars; our eyes bent towards selfish; as more I ignore your suffering; where eyes shiver, spacing through wolves, this phoenix flapping frantically; to see us live, to perish a heartbeat, asearch for adrenaline—this rush of hours, courted as addicts, alive that moment facing death. (Love is rigid; Love is a song; Love abused my soul; as crying vengeance, while more to deaths, as frantic as our phoenix: alive sometime, utilizing utensils, as one seeking solace; this broad adventure, as corralled canons, a bullet flinging forth violence; to ask forgiveness, as more that favor, peering into an old picture: those sable eyes; that slender built; those long legs—even complexion, all indicators, of this fantastic joy; to arch his soul, fleeing for falling a frantic fool; this kiss of life, as more draperies—this mourning theologian; to ask of never, such this rich melancholy, while surging through ideals: that man as losing; that father as grieving; this poet as adjusted to sorrows; this bleeding well, our treks towards mire, this marsh flooding infinite veins; to cry a tablet, while popping reality, as chiseled in time so vicious. We live it life, to hear our portraits, as others appraise our vehicles. We know for shame, as never that voice, to cringe at such words; but this is agony, to tread a thin wire, while grieving those sky-terrors. We know for loses, as feeling abandoned, as to impart that feeling: it comes with anguish, as deep this pit, our gullets churning acids: by status quo, our terrified souls, peering at hurt we love. It comes with pigeons, filled with southern songs, while stitching welts our souls. (Aside such vengeance: Aside such catastrophe: Aside such heartache;—there stands faux pas, peering at traits, our mirrors screaming at travesties). I’m more to time, a shovel to a pit, while nearly erased—as chasing matter, this metaphysic, where arms reach through passions: that cold embrace, to face this lose, while strangers embark upon an Odyssey: this firm dispute; that warm hatred; as years devastate our semblance as humans. 

I Wonder if our Songs are the Same

I don’t claim martyr, this esteemed position, as to wonder of such faith: I claim eternity, this man addressed as spirit, professed to self as motion: those darkened nights, seated at a psych’s words, ashamed of multiple bars; as breathing deeply, those silver shadows, amazed at time’s pardon; to drift through billows, accustomed to horizons, to wonder of such our needs; to have that friend, as singing sorrows, while adjusted through joys; this miracle current, as searching for deeper, to have a Swan’s Song—this rich melancholy, as sweet by nectar, to perform through fires—as sung through bleeding days, this wave of souls, to have such feelings through one life. I know of loses, this music as mellow, as to address humanity—this existential, while musing through Camus, as adrift this portal of fires; that pure lament, as seeking solace, to reach by chance that invisible hand; as taking a risk, that prone disappearance, where vessels are participating at life: that mirror’s piano, accustomed to violins, as one flutes forth pure poetry; those Country Songs, or more this New Age, falling into something beyond definition; as reading martyrs, or praising life, at sores this hearted confliction: this wealth of woes, as fiery joys, as read this deep contradiction: our paradox sung, abating illusions, at pleasures to feel this connection. I claim eternity, this loud whisper, addressed in segments of existence; that frantic timbal, our duet quartet, while strumming this locket; to unlock trumpets, this beating brain, an opus fraught by angst; where swans ingest, this arc of symphonies, fingers gripped through fences; as watching our story, this pleated sky, alert to timbre as waves: this remarkable song, as pure fires, buffing rusted mirrors that blur: this art of times, as seismic joy, a bit sombre concerning realities. I don’t claim martyr, this fugue of existence, while near that cliff as gripping soil; that pensive sadness, while spreading infusions, as born prior to those carnal blessings. I reappear, this mortal spirit, as sunk into this spirit mortal; to sense this likeness, as pledged percentages, to wonder of atmospheres; this old mockery, as forgetting oneness, where Godhead is seated in humanity; as in through outs, or outs through ins, this creative play of semantics: where justice grieves, as grieving justice, while pigeons frolic yearning return: this silk as spun; this sore as silver; our texture a bit sad as sullen; but more to bliss, this rich attar, as charged to oil shrines; this orpine love, as melded in symbols, reaching for eyes within; those nova brains, pleased to enter eternity, spinning from ruts to flares; where humans listen, as sensing our souls, as promised our minds: this privilege wooing; those oaken nights; that love by grace an ontic flame. I don’t claim martyr, this noble disposition, this man at shares his turmoil; as soaring through lights, to render such passion, to see for good in our miry lakes; that inner lantern, while dripping oils, as still radiating light; to feel such flame, adrift a center of darkness, to grab said flame while searching: this welkin fever, this lotus dream, our lunar dispositions. I claim eternity, this joy pardoned by sorrows, affected through madness: to hold this palm, our wordless song, stippled for stitched in love; as pure paradox, while seated at bliss, this struggle born of mavens.       

We Chance that Feeling

Our art this zone, amazed with drillings, as sifted by graces; that deep aphasia, at wars with videos, astounded by such fires: that miracle motion, scolded to captions, alive this backdoor—where love our feelings, as to conjure our storm, while ever that vibration. We wander for patience, as pleading forgiveness, while falling to deaf silence: that eager angst, shadowed in silvers, a man swatting locusts—or swarming bees, stinging realities, where adults close doors; those Frisbee arms, while flipping kites, as to retreat into a lover’s flesh. We gallop to safety, alarmed at feelings, as rivers rush into veins; this common ache, as needing forever, this feeling seeping into distance. I remember Christ—those years at studies, rewarded that sensation—as feeling mists, or electric fire, or feeling flushed with holiness—to have this feeling, as passing into memories, our spirits wishing for wellness. I’ve wanted more, where thoughts tugged justice, as to ingest this art of brevity—where kisses are pure, those angles pointing towards others, while ours lingers as mere myths; this strange attraction, as needing that center, where Logos communicates—or more this Ghost, waving through cities, as fleeing into sorrows—we’re needing less, as courting more, to have chosen that good thing. I know our minds, wrapped in fantasies, reeled in by justice; to create that moment, as opposed to yearning, where others strike at ideas; that jasmine prose, or that jasper lily, or arts by fires to fall that gesture; where nights are pure, while days are tears—our years creating havoc. I fiddled an apricot, while nibbling a daffodil, pondering a sunflower; where justice prevails, a man of feelings, tugged at death those pleasures; to arrive alone, as to sing alone, where rooms are fraught with therapists; if but to dream, a drum as earth, our drizzle as communion; to seek out closure, at wars to seclude, where others are reaching forward: our creative music, this blessed affair, our cares to science that moment; but still as light, those aqua fires, peering at blue flame; to die with ease, as coming to life, that love piercing silence: those flavescent tulips, as mere symbols, pointing towards spring: that effervescence, as blooming poetry, while artists writhe through in-harmonies. I’ve tied a soul, fleeing through jungles, pausing to pet a jaguar: as daughters smile, while mothers grimace, where grandfathers wipe a tear; to have one dance, as to part forever, while cleaving to one dance; that miracle as silence, that crystal lake—those beige goodbyes; to know such hearts, as khaki garbs, pressured by feelings this ache; as sore to justice, this cry for mercy, where left is right, as right is left, while souls writhe in silk: those magenta wiles; that artifice of waves; this crevice as seeking solutions; to know that mind, as charged-experience, as to pierce realities. It’s more that feeling, to live as poets, to endure those agonies—while flaming textures, or carving tiles, or tap-dancing rooftops; that chance by aches, as to miss his part, where said love becomes a trial.    

Bizarre At Tombs

I’m alien flowers, and turquoise pains, peering at facial cries—a burgundy grunt, this plastic calm, this mermaid voyage; as beige interior, or yellow retreats, pulling at shadows. Oh for perfect beauty, those cryptic butterflies, that intimate exchange—to perish by sex, as craving insanity, a furnace filled with broken glass. I’m alien powers, as one bizarre, holding a fetching diamond; as hell was born, seeping into bones, as ever so ecstatic—gazing at ivory, while drawing ivy, this blend as detrimental: our chase through fields; our outer grandeur; a tie as a pair of panties; to furnish membranes, that teasing picture, that sweet candor—as smelling roses, or lemonade soap, while warm that space of souls. I’m sick to love, this aura of crystal tears, addicted that gyration; where arts flourish, this motivation, as carrying a genius; that blue duck soaring, aside a green pigeon, or a dusky brown crow—were gods to flourish, or to flourish as gods, grounded in purple pepper—this puppeteer, as pure as hidden, this Peruvian nightmare; where hell was gorgeous, even gravity, as gripping as a pair of cleats. I’m alien showers, afield a desert, painting tumbleweeds—to cry that name, as games to children, that adolescent addiction: our curious ills, while graded as souls, to manage as bizarre. I loved a crystal, to ignite a spell, to feel a boomerang; this violent treasure, or fiery lakes, such motion as sitting still. It’s cold to passion, our split venues, as souls creeping through crevices; where snails speak, while grasshoppers leap, where centipedes write letters; as coursing this brain, this outer dilemma, refreshed through chaos—this inner miracle, to taste eternity, longing for that moment; to dismiss pains, while scraping ribs, a soul as humbled highly—indeed, his life, a thread to a rose, a web to a spider—that inner light, a rocket to a dream, this furious woman.

I return a falcon, as morphing through eagles, our systems as screaming—for precious shelter, that roving dispute, ravished as one an animal—that deep exchange, as a moment to notice, while shifting through high tides; where love was vicious, as fraught ambitions, this cordial dilemma; to ache with closure, as gates swung open, this friendship as pushing sanity. I’m lost as found, this zealous heaven, asearch for an intimate haven; as flipping pillows, while searching dins, as one a bit bizarre. I caught an angle, this small magic, running through living-rooms; to turn with passion, to leap so high, as to enter his brain; as born again, craving this vixen, as to enter by cadence that light—atoning his sins, pierced as one bleeding, fumbling a pair of earrings. 

The Skin on Our Fingers

I love you, as vicious as time, spinning for calling this dream; to realize death, as tortured in spells, while screams rest contortedly. I’m at a vision, while to manage lights, this trapeze as grinning: those furious palms, as living psalms, while feigning calm—to die for justice, this unjust craving, arranged through screams. I’m featured deaths, heaving iron, those violent ambitions; to curl affections, steeped in silence, while mourning contentions. It’s miracles that art, as art that miracle, shifting for dying this living life; where flowers are precious, as precious is life, sighted by glance this mirror; to catch a glimpse, that blurry second, to build a fortress. We die this way, this way to die, while breathing sulfur—this chanced event, that event by chance, trekking this mental fire—where trust is void, this dishonorable seed, as never to find our alpha; for days were vicious, as fright was spinning, where hell was aching; this moonly rose, as pinkish white, whittling wedgewood—to voice designs, as seated in brains, this meeting of souls; that casual heart-thump, at approximate moments, to pull so far away—to cry those signs, where truths appear, while pash is to feel as un-believed—this choice adventure, our adventures as choice, pointing at dimples, or high cheekbones, or long fingers, or pouty perfect lips—this death as plural, as attacked by kingdoms, leering from within—to love forever, to trust ambitions, to know a part of mirrors—this season of woes, as charged in love, while aching to prescient life. I flew insanity, to exist this train, as absurd as first glance; to project by arts, this peaceful dimension, while a bit for eerie; as opposed to history, as bodies in formation, spearing through vivid colors. Oh for passions, as sudden as dreams, where said passions lead to disappointments; this cry of souls, to want Cinderella, or Pocahontas, at wars these wolves with vampires; to have disgrace, for one a dream, afflicted with rabies; as more a scream, so hard to keep you, falling for rapture a mere myth—as accused dearly, of much insanity, pleading to have brevity—this choice device, to want for sensations, as to enchant eternity—this far cry, our radix as broken, as finding so many words; that mental-bank, pulled through love, to wonder of this magical palm: Would it be that life: Would you extend such fortune: Would I flourish with us; as sold in dreams, this casual appeal, where one wrestles with depression. I must ask of love, that patient tornado, when hell has come to visit. Could I carry us: Is fetching beauty enough: Would distance infuriate love; indeed, to fly, at brief those moments, this kingdom of fires; but life is hectic, as peering at eternity, while seeing every crevice; so more to ours, as grounded deeply, singing of Humpty Dumpty—that tale of life, that putting together, one worthy of such gifts. I’m falling low, to measure such laws, as never to feel completed; this sad piccolo, that immortal flute, that ink-padded brooding; where said love, becomes a burden, while fleeing towards a soulmate: that different person, as sensing our sins, while extending our gifts; to die such passion, those dulcet eyes, as patient as mothers: that first step; our potty for training; our first words; as screaming silence, our silence to scream, those days of purple castles. I’d flee in time, this glamour as agony, contented with flights—those beige betweens, as traits of fury, while courted a dream; or more to singing, while outlining tragedy, this spectrum of terrors—where souls travel, this wafture of feelings, staring at something tragic; to realize our feelings, as not to permanence, where said love has formed a fortress: appalled neatly; shattered keenly; at love with poetries.      

I Know a Swan

How would they hear if not for a preacher; and how would they know if untaught? We take from status, as to rebuild; then we restructure according to our needs.

Hi love; this steady pace, a trestle as a symbol; to die such mercy, as cursed in parts, to avoid such truths. It’s pure rhapsody, this inner feeling, to arrange our love; this nonplus, as silent wisdom, this fantast of screams; to have agendas, as to see perfection, as to outlive our chants; that deep caress, while mourning Buddha, despite such splendor. We know war, falling into mirrors, as forgetting our images; but more that dream, that inner prophecy, those mahogany symbols; as indelible truths, to know for justice, as to deprive our inner beasts. I love a swan, this vocal mantra, our outer soulprints; to voyage through wells, pitted to fly, as to carry heaviness; this deep soul, that electric dialogue, as seeking self—to live by graces, adrift through currencies, as forging a silent melody; to part seas, or open oceans, our rivers traveling through seasons; to dream of love, to chisel a fortress, to march into madness; this political justice, our ink as blood, our circuit as universal. I felt agog, to see that face, tearing through mother’s womb: our outer music; that solemn feeling; our chorus as ecumenical; where something died, as something lived, this natural cycle: as given webs, or traveling koans, while pausing brains; this art of life, an inner orchestra, a maestro as a swan. I love for hearts, to hear us sing, as dipping through clouds—wherewith, a sign, even a signpost, as participating in existence; to waft through love, a friend’s linchpin, as to take pride in trust—this miracle feeling, as returned to justice, while remaining a fire; this terrible art, this writhing soul, that subtle envy; where parents watch, as guiding by chance, this tragic example. I saw a phantom, embedded in knots, wrestling for freedom; to lose for justice, this sight of woes, while too young to war. It comes in time, this rejuvenation, as senses gain order; but loses live, as to redeem times, while carrying sorrow; to sing of love, or to pardon literature, while soaring as a young spirit; to churn in silence, as to imagine eyes, that quilt of dreams. I thought to fiction, but this is madness, as to outlive realities; but more to truths, to know infractions, while to forgive with time; or more to tragedy, that inner denial, that frustrated sanctum; as feeling flustered, in parts a scream, where souls feel neglected. It must be life, this series of wounds, as so ubiquitous; where souls writhe, churning in agonies, as reaching paradise; to unlock arts, or riddle through symbols, jotting a madrigal. I see porcelain souls, these frantic beings, as pursuing through tunnels, to drift by notes, a soul to repeats, else, to cherish our inheritance; this flaming vehicle, sensed through intuition, while singing of glory—this mystical justice, this praise of lights, while probing a midnight sun.