Alas,
it lives—this frantic ontology, longing through caves and crevices; this remote
feeling, plagued by mediocrity, despite our famous moments; that daily life,
crocheted in silence, faced by something mundane; to have adventures, through
illness-waves, or more such vices and virtues. Alas, it lives—this wailing
scream, as appeased but a moment; this offset of chemicals, this planet by
natures—our curious appetites; to live but seconds, those throws of trenches,
knitting a niche; where souls flourish, abounding in silence, too consumed for
participation; this probing problem, this vault of loneness, as cased in
cocoons: afield and lost; or bounded and found; at peace but increments of
survival: that place in hearts, adrift and soaring, a satchel of bad habits; as
addicted to love, at chase through ventures, at woes through cadence; to need
that shift, angered with self, this country of wailing souls; where passions
erupt, this casual simplicity, a bit too complex for simplicity: our whys for graves, wrestling and uneasy,
surfing a shooting star; as charged that second, to need that return, engrossed
in natural processes: this cage of diamonds, if nudged by grace, as accustomed
to a slew of promises; as wheels to gravel, or gas to engines, this flow of
tantric activity. Alas, it lives—this courage of souls, while more a segment of
fences; to dance by aches, this face of dreams, as remembering this ace of tribulations—while
parted in chimes, aloof but absorbed, courted by pains this third round: that
grunting moan, as often ignored, where something trite passes as extraordinary;
but woe as gone, that rejuvenation, while flitting to fly; that gavel of
justice, while still consumed, a poet and her pen; where dungeons flee—this
imperfect balance, presumed as one destined; for alas, it lives—this shiver to
spines, those romantic cymbals, that trumpet to echo sensations; where souls
call, that flute of harmony, while tugged to that silent basement.
