I
thought about sin, those horrifying gavels, that unraveled mind; to sail with
demons, our manipulative ways, splayed by wars those beauties; as craving
highness, bounded by lows, to find this medium: that terrified smile; that
maniacal grimace; that image in mothers our mirrors—where canines growl, while
fawning our palms, to cringe that touch of love: our explosive tropes, that
crooked simile, this ceiling as melting into justice; as speckled children,
with freckled faces, at chase something so innocent; to die our passions, as
living our dreams, as to abhor transgressions; this taught agenda, as
controlled neatly, our deacons warning about reprobates. I thought to rebel,
this mental prison, where doctrine chiseled punishments; this punitive soul,
fraught with scriptures, as condemned by letters—to meet a psych, while to
wonder of sin, where one is dictated by values; this subtle shift, but still a
prison, devoid of a holy principle; or more religious, as grounded in humans,
where perfection is demanded; but still uneasy, stripped and stressed—gagged
and bound, traipsing that thin wire—where souls flourish, as treasured confliction,
while I speak of self; that fabulous being, a bit judgmental, peering at welkin
eyes; this colorful balance, as nearly imbalanced, shifting through a plethora
of personas—this place in hearts, to see that portrait, where personality is
captured; this art of woes, as affixed to ethics, where a religious dangles in
mid-motion; to bleed that office, asearch for clarities, running by force
through havoc; while taught to listen, or taught to sing, where patience
becomes virtue. I’m hearted a sin, to
cherish this venture, while courted through fantasy; as avoiding lights, or
relishing lights, confronted by something therapeutic—this vice by chance, this
subtle exchange, where one is conducive to life; this place of powers, aflame
this night-break, assured through errors—as dancing eternal, running from sin,
as to embrace a secret quirk: that meditative gaze; that longing reach; that
terrified suggestion—as bleeding life, or painting science, where hell becomes
this season of withdrawals; if but to grieve, becoming unaffected, a bit
tortured by love; or more this vest, tatted with grievances, at tears to unpeel
our mirror’s messages—floating by pendulums, this grandfather clock, at ills to
pause its philosophy: but art this pain, examined thoroughly, as still unseen:
this wealth of projections, raked by tolerance, watching an infant grip a nose:
this frantic address, while seeing something precious, as to instill a sight of
love: this furious dream, as coming to pass, to discriminate concerning
affections; while rooted in sin, this heinous reality—as our parents did us
this way; to instill values, or to control actions, while a series of souls
rebelled; as becoming anarchists, or iconoclasts, or something askew—this place
of perceptions, where wrong is wrong, but living has become wrong; this voice
embedded, this type of introject—that pointing finger; as tied to brains,
seasoned for deprogramming, as to acquire another set of precepts; where these
are different, as more conducive, while peering at lights; to see for sin, this
thing of sails, where life is constructed towards perfection: this evil sin, as
effacing holiness, while leaning upon human proclivities; this arm of passions,
as craved elation, where sessions become haywire. So what of life—this vehicle
of damages, seeking our perfected ways: as therapeutic, these islands of sins,
or more a touch dysfunctional—to crop a picture, while steeped in injustice, as
souls stipple private ethics—this tour of hierarchy, as planting authority, if
but this purpose of order; where some may qualm, as depending on will, this order by man’s inner self; as
pure authority, or a slanted reality, where overseen by thoughts.
