Gray
terrors; bold trimmers; this ghost at faces—to stream our lives, this intricate
riddle, this splayed trauma: as lived melancholia, this cycle of feelings,
reaching by nails that sky-dream; that hectic past, those mental bars, those
scars at souls this living. It was night to us; this speckled canvas; our
pictures splattered in beliefs; to die that love, as rekindled afar, sitting a
silent room: that beige interior; those projected images; our mentors
shattering mirrors. Our memories are pale; our parts are entangled; our
triangles point to miseries: if but that person; if but our dreams; if but
understandings: to see as privy; to die our melody; to free us from blame. I
was near that place, a spectacle tangled, a soul misjudged. It became life; a
number of pills; a series of loses; to imagine mother, at terrors a nightmare,
seated in a room of magic: that mental picture; those bridges aflame; our inner
media(s) a bit flippant. I pet a poodle, as tears streamed, while believing in
life. I trekked a shore, kicking at bottles, afraid of realizations: that
purple dream; our shifting moods; that woman a complex hug. If stars our minds,
at pagan rivers—this christic occasion—as reading a psalm, or mining for
treasures, at reach to chase another dream: this lose of vibes; this cadence of
souls; at wants to transcend—that furious mother, that melancholic daughter,
our grandparents searching at peace; to see for deaths, this gilt of shames,
while mentoring softly. I’ve died often, peering into souls, but an infant gnawing
too hard. It comes with flesh, this human condition, ravished by our
existential; to remember beauty, as stern with vibrancy, to witness beauty made
humble. I admire caches; I relish in flying; I see us as twins. We arise as
spirits, floating through mechanics, attempting to remain human: this cryptic
effect, stranded at perceptions, while digging just enough—with much to give,
this stubborn man—at tears, to trust: that first month; that superb cadence;
that transformation—as not to speak it, as more to address it, while energies
became a reservoir. I must admit it—this young soul, captured by certain
talents—as sensing life, embedded in sorrow, as exploited for assistance: this
casual soul; our centered realities; that steep river—where solace bathes, this
crazed adventure, our eyes to witness anomalies. It comes with time; it dreams
of balance; it adores this rhythm—as pure paradoxes, trekking a trapeze, amazed
to know Spirit.
