I’m gutter
feelings, this quaking flame, elusive as mind-power; that kneaded miracle, at
highs for lows, cursed as kissing its shadow; this webbish tempo, this cadence for
secrets, while forgiveness is segue; this vague enrichment, as ditching
accountability, while liberating a conscious soul; as mother would cringe, as
honor is sacrifice, while irrigated by something hateful—this terrible feeling,
aloft unto pillows, seated in sullen venom: afore a mirror, leering at a
stranger, feeding this inner person: as silent justice; or salient woes; at
tears to force doing what’s right; this subtle nuance, at heart’s disposal, as
to suggest an intricate correlation; as knowing justice, as un-cuffed freedoms,
or more those thoughts as selfish. I’m gutter feelings, this dark confession,
as not to change our status. I could deception, as craving that love, while convulsing
internally; but this is chaos, this gem of pains, as to stumble through vomit
that cave; where birds are gazing, while wires are thinning, amazing this
trapeze diamond; where tender those arts, at discomforts for souls, while said
souls disregard infractions; this cold feeling, a symbol as harbinger, where
banter is hostage hostilities—this cry for freedom, wherewith, was Job, a bit
unfastened for mercy—where justice cried, as mingling midnights, by misery that
spoken voice. It should be simple—aside so many thickets, as wishing for
confession; this mind of souls, whereto, are tears, whereby, is splendor; but
pain is raw, where face-value is law, while secrets are kept neatly: this fool
for thoughts, as articulated reasons, an opus by chance our terrors; as souls
weep, alarming brains, as digging with shovels—to unpack caves, as to see that
face, while one is taking courage. It churns that way, this motif as sorrow,
where charm is mistaken; to rummage through passions, or to scribble a
memoir—that feeling as recurring; as conscience writhes, that mental pivot, a
few are privy; to utter nothing, faced with perversion, vying for entrance;
this mind of falsities, where a fantast prays—clawing at metal bricks.
