Symmetry

We design this way, fevered at warm baths, reaping our dearest epitomes: that salacious gait; that intoxication; those cryptic rays as forbidden; to thread our souls, with languishing grammar, as if troubled our pardons through ecstasy. We forbade this way, our mothers screaming, while warring at this dangerous soul; wherefore, our roaming brains, chained to sights, linked through in prisons—to have that churn, that forbidden friction, suffused by honor that collapse: this trace of weather, our showers steamy, her towel wrapped tightly—as seducing steam, this see-through image, affected richly by aesthetics: our mystical Rembrandt—our fevered Van Gogh—our schizophrenic Picasso, as dear that light, this pale validity, while agaze by such features; as Raphael’s muse, or Schumann’s insanity, or Wolfgang’s poverty—these filaments of woes, or sheer ecstasy, while we forbade justice: that artifice of souls; this cruel existence; where one is chaste to lie—those putrid lagoons, or mahogany ducks, flapping as sentenced to madness. We come to tears, to sense distorted wisdom, this kingdom of morbid activity—as piercing lungs, wailing for mercy, as rapture engulfs our sinister souls: this world of judgments; our biochemistry; our pistons thrusting neurons—as more to thoughts, this want for cores, while to shed a decade of indiscretions; this space of woes, as never so gorgeous, to feel for prisons—this aching shiver, flooded by receptors, those eyes lusting for fleetingness; where babies are cherished, this twofold woman, at wars this inner omen—to deliver passions, as never he felt, while rooms become lonely. We come to souls, our membranes at flights, as weighing our merry-go-round: this inverted ocean, to waltz through aches, our inverted sky-dance; where souls love, as seeing our flaws, captured by this soreness; as stark madness, this kiss of tides, our islands inverted into flames—as welkin screams, as never this passion, knitted through molecules our fevers. We love this way, carving marble tombs, our souls by glance those catacombs: to love her dearly, as so psychoactive, fleeing doubts this needs for certitude: our dying confessions; our mothers in urns; such as mania that ecstasy to light—as shifted moods, to hold our palms, given to love ‘til death.