We
have influence, this magnet cadence, as rich in glitter; to pause a gesture, as
deep insights, nudging that centered aura; to adjust through time, this welkin
feature, screaming through realms that magic. It becomes an art, this furious
demand, while seeping into analyses—where flowers are lethal, as berries are poisonous,
this twofold reality; while steeped in ethics, agaze by humans—this war to
chisel phenomenon: that scudding mischief, flitting through atmospheres, as
pure enquiry—that song of souls, captured by innocence—the richness of children;
to see this person, as filled with spunk—those daily demands. We come to terms—strangers at knitting—our
lambent skies; as more to feelings, this light to perish, while transforming
energies; to hold perfections, as slipping through time, to become sophisticated
persons. It’s more a maze, this crafted dynamic, to witness that manifestation;
as seeing in seconds, our captive souls, while tugged at cores this maze. I’m
fleeing through brains, pausing at exhibitions, amazed by impressionism—this
wealth of conceptions, perceived through minds, courted by life’s
existential—to float so harshly, our turbulent skies, seeping into magnet
personalities; as less a passerby, but more a builder, peering at structural
blueprints; to place a peg, or unfasten a latchet, while coursing through
literature; to find that face, that mathematical rhythm, where events come to
speak; or more a flare, striking through clouds, as torn as midnight darkness.
We try to speak it, entrapped by meters, as reaching more a riddled statement;
while pain to phoenix, arranged in agendas, sparked by lights our
paradise—where mothers echo, this grace as living—perfected by chance this
cryptic art. We’re seeing mystics, as
flaming through minds, a feature as a perceiver; to channel by glance, a subtle
message, where it drifts in multiple directions.
