It
becomes a dream, this telepathic portal, as threshed intensity: that miracle
effusion, to fettle our hearts—those ripples singing opera; to love through
brains, to feel such pressure, while steeped in fantasy; as paused his life,
that genus of music, that genre of spirits. I’m catching visions, as said to
activities, as a brain expresses itself: that gentle turmoil; our inner
grandparents; those seconds of insights—to stumble that sentence, as purely
amazed, about as frantic as a caged ferret; where time is pendulum, frightened
of mirrors, gazing by glances—that weather to rooms, those aches to dungeons,
behaving so close to outbursts: that feral feeling, that tragic diary, those
feelings released while returning; this cycle of souls, as affected for
escapes, while seated at omega—that alpha of fires, this cadence of flames,
a bit too beige to forfeit. (I’ll remember tomorrow, sectioned by an
etcher-sketcher, falling into triangles): that mischief of minds, to have that
soul, to garnish some type of terror—that teal perspective, as taupe
meditations, crawling as heightened about satori:
that mental light, to know your flame, to admire your flame. I’m driven nights,
speaking forbidden mirrors, accustomed to forbidden mirrors; where Love is
watching, weighing those sentences, while flipping a series of pages—to find
his heart, as scattered to gardens, where pigeons nibble knowledge: our knotted
sols, so crossed as midnights, flailing through desert cities—as mystic
symbols, a thump as presence, sifting through inner diaries; to find that word,
as to find that person, while afar that target; where souls are lambent, held
hostage by self, realizing such is tragic: that filter by pain, while reaching
a fantasy, at tears to believe, this is living: that mint cigar; that raspberry
tea; those loquat dreams; to know of deaths, seated at mistakes, at wars to
erase you. (It comes by justice; those years at thoughts; as nothing can be
said); this inner cacophony, this outer telepathy, our woes as fuels igniting a
magnum opus; where swans vanish,
pursuing their visions, chasing by charms, The
Magic: that cultic essence; that mountain atop a cloud; that favor to
remember tomorrow; as lived our brains, knitted through concentration, a bit
frantic about life. If but to graph us, sailing through seas, shifting a
hundred mile volt—where souls pause, at sudden a thought, attempting to
differentiate thoughts—as secerning lights, or flickering tumbleweed, where
eyes have become plural: that captive heart, that fluid arc—our tears to
jubilee.
