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.
