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.
