So
far away, pitted in silence, at turns, those false impressions; a bit wayward,
glaring at niceties, at wonders that hidden terror; as churning analyses, or
burning essence, staring at something amiss; to flower gravely, as buried
breathing, speaking anon that inner reign. I’m troubled at lights, to share
that burden, attempting at faces to fathom: that dark night; that furious
dream; those grounds designed for war; while singing justice, rift by justice,
wandering a sea of motives; to dance so grayly, at chance this vase of dreams,
to imagine you kindle love: that blue veil, those mahogany draperies, that
balcony an outer brain: if cried so gently, our patience to curdle, at souls
those visions. I drift through storms, this fane at flickers, destroyed by
something peaceful—as challenged our lives, cutting through contradiction,
agaze by recurring themes—while trekking ravines, to carve a passion, so deep
our raft of horrors: that soul kneeling; that heart by lance that calling; our
impressions held hostage. It’s cold by tomorrow, alive by tension, as so close
to exploit weakness—that fallen rain, adjusting to puddles, peering at
treasures; while chanced his life, a unit by chi, gripping a chunk of
anxieties: that clumsy feeling, as seeking clarity, to fumble by arts that
jacket—where songs are sullen, our theories as morbid, our dusky skies as
cruel. I remember tomorrow, to sigh a cigar, peering at a pond of frogs—to imagine
that life, so simply a fly, at leaps by leaves cleaving to seconds—that
locket’s curse, this craving by rites, as martyrs by conviction: that taboo
rune; that groggy sunlight; those groans as black art; to advance this ache, so
dry but empty, purposed by mother’s impressions—as sung our stars, that russet
inflection, as livid as father’s screams. We live that way, at mentions our
courses, our glasses flushed with truths; as empty flutes, or full lutes, this
ash a pious miracle; to search religion, this raspy force, at tears, that
manifestation. I’ve sighted Sinai, engraved in tablets, our souls
immortalized—to chance by feelings, this mental wrestling, fleeing as flying
into songbirds; as fierce as metals, as lethal as irons, by curse this force of
blessings: that drifting misery, as kissed a dove, afloat that wild oak—where
souls filter, that rich scar, afar a dream.
