May
I cry; of something mystique; this lighter beneath souls; that flicker by
hearts, as to enter fuels—this rapid explosion. I knew for mystic, as eyes
captured glory, that energy to auras—where pendulums wrestle, this chime of
brains, as casual as noon adventures. I admired visions, stolen from self, and
unaware of mechanics; that inner fuse, that flagrant distance—our appearances
as normal; to charge engines, or shift alternators, churning through
transmissions; to envision life, this cordial dance—our trumpets devastating
atmospheres; where time was harsh, as perception cautious, this thing that
meant nothing; at least at seconds, while subtleties churned—that impending
dementia; as more to flowers, while crocheting petals—peering at ladybugs;
those precious wings, as soft as kindness, to have that feeling of compassion.
It comes with thoughts, wrestled by love, while ever to regroup; to catch by
glimpse, this fantastic gem, as nurtured by kings: this inner arc, flavored by
honey-melon, as to remember nights in trance; where love would blossom, that
deep delusion, as realizing our arenas; this mystic vault, panting that mystic
sky, as so close that mystic cry; where ever
is friendly, as turquoise blossoms, hanging by veins a tulip star; and
please forgive, this needs for beauty, raffled by indelicate chances. I heard a face, while dripping in time,
confused by occurrences: those radical winds, as gusting through times, where
said affection outweighed jurisdiction: this ark of souls, laced in gorgeous, while unaffected by such
sentiments; for life is substance, as more than words, where interaction
becomes essential: that thumping heart, as to lose those rites, at currency that tare of pains; where love is leaping, as
normal that style, while interpretation is haywire. I’ve leapt a rearview,
running through futures, at anguish this middle-ground; while moved at core, to
sore dimensions, where mystics chime in codification: that rich enchantment, as
singing of secrets, to realize a gentle touch; so more this beauty, as less
delusion, torn through realities.
