By
hearts our flame, such fuel our days, immersed in nowness: too religious; and too profane; living our contradiction;
to point a finger, leering at ourselves, captured by voice that second; to
realize love, as born through struggles, our palms held as confusion; this
leave of souls, this excelled dwelling, our pits filled with emotions; as cried
his life, seducing Sophia, purposed as betrayals those hidden trainings. We
sighted fury, bleeding recovery, peaking at noontides: our moon tugging; our
senses explosive; our seconds as minutes morphing into hours—to dream by
shadows, as silver our burgundies, while beige our screams; to flow as
abstract, as silence is concrete, to remember you left first: this fair sorrow;
this mischief odor; our sweat becoming offensive: to weep by willows;
christened in baptism; our nights by windows that butterfly—to see us perish,
as living such prose, by grace this fire seeking forms. It’s existential: It’s
metaphysical: It’s teleological—these screams of souls, flipping by ollie, this
intensive wave—as treasured our gems, this fair sorrow, to sense that unneeded
presence; as doves cry, this music by madness, to want more of your soul: this
wailing forest; our autumn meadows; this covering seeping into emotions; to
sigh a prayer, leaping as an instrument, this axe circling our souls; as
hacking sternness, or kissing joys, while purpose poses as a posited theorem.
We feel distracted: We live through infusions: We beat to drums that chase
fleetingness: this powerful chiding; this bridge to wounds; our rivers as
coursing into ambitions; to love by rain, this rising lily, while voiceless at
seconds that endless trumpet: our daughters singing; our mothers at archery;
our fathers igniting kilns. It could be life, this woodcut love, while flitting
through harsh realities; to chance this heart, by art this fury, where we meet
by fires: that glass of lemonade; that sombre gaze; that sober response; to
grip by palm; those midnight blues; at wars to extract that feeling; where
gestures are gothic, while volts shade thunder—this nowness plaguing our intentions; to bungee through prose, this
falling by grace, where arisen our souls as cultures—this mystical dance, as
pulling towards reclusion, while peaking a song by fevers: that deepness
through gusts; this feat of souls; our brains leaping into concentration.
