It’s
subtle as heartbeats, this cryptic awareness, creeping by features; to have
luxury, as formed in chaos, our liquid personalities; as scheduled to perish,
this purpose of persons, where something kneels beneath as surface; this chase
as winded, our fires as looming, abroad this terror of mirrors. It became a
second, as knitted in laughter, while to ingest such mirth; as gentle disorder,
while celebrating order, this message as slipping away: our immortal song,
striving at perfection, sorting through details; as such is brevity, this
awakened flame, whereto, becoming familiar. We drift as shadows, this inner
rawness, kissing waves at sea; this trope of arts, to shift a soul, pregnant by
measures of interpretations: that rapture by voice, this rhythmic algorithm—our
science as touching steepness—this welkin dream, to awaken by motion, while
examined through science; this pure advancement, this pure inferno, as to
remember that laughter: as photogenic, each image an impression, this measure
by tenets deliberate—to sing of sights, this beauty by minds, seated at a
settee: our velvet thunder, while soaring through facts, to see us seated at
justice; while nearly friends, adjusted through time, while cementing our
warnings: this frantic calm; our music by whispers; that analytical gaze; to
have measured souls, by years of messages, to have sunk into our insanity; as
greeting your own, this vox of madness, to delve by adventure that cadence; as
seeing self, that mirror of strangers, as to familiarize each person. It
couldn’t be gentle, while we exist harshly, at wars to maintain balance; while
enchanted dearly, as never to reveal, this infatuation with features; to blend
as overseer, this inner song, while tapping-in freely. It measures through
stealth, to have seen us aflame, as music touched our minds; this inner magic,
as deemed as dangerous, this method by journey as exoteric; where feelings
churn, that inner dynamic, fleeing into quarters; to peer through curtains,
disguised in mysticism—our yogic adventure; where souls mourn, as cheerful
through sights, a bit furious by dreams: that ache as seeing, to appear in an
instance, where to see this century of analysis.
