We
came for converse, this small ocean, purified by tears. We came to live, a bit
choked up, speeding through syllables; as eyes were taupe, debating something
despicable, or more something human. We cried perfection, an alien as legacy,
agaze by psychotic wiles; to take courage, our bodies groaning, our souls
crawling; to want adventure, too course to converse, as easier becoming naked;
as giving birth, shadowed in miracles, a bit complex our senses. We watch those
persons; that shift by turns electric; while nervous to express an inner
burning. We’re casual fools; intense liars; at search a perfect storm: that
shattered vase; that skipping album; our steaks with onions that floor; to love
as cannibals, too shallow for church, and too religious for sin; this wave as
life, accustomed to wickedness, while agaze by midnight purple. It could be
roses, those orange stems, and that maroon petal: It could be armoires, carved
into human brains, and a diary bleeding our truest intentions; as mere control,
gnawing for scratching—this testament for societies: that dungeon of cries;
that prison of lusts; that gait to pause collapsing forward. Our moons are
vocal; our sun is burgundy; our forks tap upon a trestle; to spin our lives,
afforded one last dance, while cultures paint our portraits. Its diamond
earrings; a necklace of pearls—both to culture a garbage disposal: as living by
fire; or bathing in jam; while water speaks to baptismal; to have that
secret—“It shall not be taken”—running through caves carving proverbs: this
chest of heaving; our sweat to jars; that bath of beaded soaps; to curse our
joy, these fools as poets, our music sung to Sophia. It couldn’t be gentle, as
becoming mundane, too impressed with chaos: our days on and off; our prose
bleeding aphorisms; our souls grieving our humanity—to die a tad bit, in order
that verse, or dying for curses our devotions. It shouldn’t be magic, pelted by
brains, asearch an extraordinary voyage; but love for churns, this cadence of
fools, while entrenched in signs and symbols. We laugh to feel it, or die to
control it, this fury as testing our penmanship: that wail to wolves; that
coniferous forest; our shadows as becoming plural; to sing of justice, our
unjust wiles, as living deaths to compose: this wave of violence, as seen
perfected, to sit through furnace cries—this walk of demons, our inner
dimensions, pulled as tugged that inner voice; to have emotions, streaming
intellect, as to courage a midday storm: those sincere eyes; pleading for
understanding; while begging our distance—or asking of mercy, this convoluted
nearness, where crows offer comfort; to perish by living, our mirrors as
detrimental, while feeling this evasive person.
