I
love you, as vicious as time, spinning for calling this dream; to realize
death, as tortured in spells, while screams rest contortedly. I’m at a vision,
while to manage lights, this trapeze as grinning: those furious palms, as
living psalms, while feigning calm—to die for justice, this unjust craving,
arranged through screams. I’m featured deaths, heaving iron, those violent
ambitions; to curl affections, steeped in silence, while mourning contentions. It’s
miracles that art, as art that miracle, shifting for dying this living life;
where flowers are precious, as precious is life, sighted by glance this mirror;
to catch a glimpse, that blurry second, to build a fortress. We die this way,
this way to die, while breathing sulfur—this chanced event, that event by
chance, trekking this mental fire—where trust is void, this dishonorable seed,
as never to find our alpha; for days were vicious, as fright was spinning,
where hell was aching; this moonly rose, as pinkish white, whittling
wedgewood—to voice designs, as seated in brains, this meeting of souls; that
casual heart-thump, at approximate moments, to pull so far away—to cry those
signs, where truths appear, while pash is to feel as un-believed—this choice adventure,
our adventures as choice, pointing at dimples, or high cheekbones, or long
fingers, or pouty perfect lips—this death as plural, as attacked by kingdoms,
leering from within—to love forever, to trust ambitions, to know a part of
mirrors—this season of woes, as charged in love, while aching to prescient
life. I flew insanity, to exist this train, as absurd as first glance; to
project by arts, this peaceful dimension, while a bit for eerie; as opposed to
history, as bodies in formation, spearing through vivid colors. Oh for
passions, as sudden as dreams, where said passions lead to disappointments;
this cry of souls, to want Cinderella, or Pocahontas, at wars these wolves with
vampires; to have disgrace, for one a dream, afflicted with rabies; as more a
scream, so hard to keep you, falling for rapture a mere myth—as accused dearly,
of much insanity, pleading to have brevity—this choice device, to want for
sensations, as to enchant eternity—this far cry, our radix as broken, as
finding so many words; that mental-bank, pulled through love, to wonder of this
magical palm: Would it be that life: Would you extend such fortune: Would I
flourish with us; as sold in dreams, this casual appeal, where one wrestles
with depression. I must ask of love, that patient tornado, when hell has come
to visit. Could I carry us: Is fetching beauty enough: Would distance infuriate
love; indeed, to fly, at brief those moments, this kingdom of fires; but life
is hectic, as peering at eternity, while seeing every crevice; so more to ours,
as grounded deeply, singing of Humpty Dumpty—that tale of life, that putting
together, one worthy of such gifts. I’m falling low, to measure such laws, as
never to feel completed; this sad piccolo, that immortal flute, that ink-padded
brooding; where said love, becomes a burden, while fleeing towards a soulmate:
that different person, as sensing our sins, while extending our gifts; to die
such passion, those dulcet eyes, as patient as mothers: that first step; our
potty for training; our first words; as screaming silence, our silence to
scream, those days of purple castles. I’d flee in time, this glamour as agony,
contented with flights—those beige betweens, as traits of fury, while courted a
dream; or more to singing, while outlining tragedy, this spectrum of
terrors—where souls travel, this wafture of feelings, staring at something
tragic; to realize our feelings, as not to permanence, where said love has
formed a fortress: appalled neatly; shattered keenly; at love with poetries.
