It
becomes twilight, reading of swans, at wars with father: It becomes heartache,
desiring affection, from a woman estranged: to shift a feeling, with drilling souls,
embarking upon a sullen day: flowers are mundane; gravel is metaphoric; this
strange soul could help: where motives churn, this yonic strength, pictured at
trains in vases. I awoke with visions, something tangible, this want to write. I
wrote a piece, something haptic, where unsaid eyes affected our turns. I must
imagine, a silent soul, gripped by disposition; as moving currents, while
pushing moods, as a bit deliberate; else, to sorrows; or more to angers; while
musing intentionality: this wistful fuse, racing towards peace, at churns to
acquire said peace. We dare impose, as souls with powers, at wants for
something unreal: that livelong joy; that perfect parent; that shiftless
ecstasy—where souls live, as dying in happiness, to sense a disjunct: that
harsh father; that critical mother; such souls intruding upon existence; as
living our lives, to place us on mute, this thirst for certain kindness—as
spoken in vain, a flute to sea, as charming leviathan; where softness comes,
through a foreign soul, as to want unsaid discourse: this steep distance,
grounded in reality, while unreality speaks of healing. I’m proud to feel, this
immortal power, as it aims at sorrows; where sadness morphs, this vicarious
misery, as our mirrors are distinctive: that inner chide; those rejoicing
cries; that want for a gentle palm; as born this life, amazed by father, in awe
of perfection: our projected thoughts; as more those needs; while to hear
encouragements: this chorus of forests; those private mirages; that tent containing
articles; where guilt is heavy, agaze by mother, while desiring a sense of
texture: as silence speaks; while received by justice; where a person is
treated as a daughter. We live this island, filled with toxics, while spinning
through pretenses: to see a soul, striking at nerves, but far another world. We
die those waves, as to shift a soul, while too far to gain comfort: if but to
unbox; if but to breathe; if but an unshackled emotion—this miracle feeling, as
sensing absence, for it lives that it dies; this cry of passions, this outer
snare, that moment a tender father. I sense strength, boxed in anger, as too
stern to reach; while living approvals, whereat, are terrors, wherewith, are
concerns: ambivalent tiles; this musing at letters; this striving with
parents.
