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.
