Existential Mystics

Where was life, that broken woman, a subject of passions; those heinous eyes, floored to pillows, disputing self within dreams; to scream our lives, as misguided souls, at welts to evolve wings—this churn of lines, while meeting mother, our living brains; at breath a snare, while afar, our personas, running our meadows: that speaking dolphin; that shivering deer; our likeness as frightening. I broke from nonsense, while perfected in lies, this man a legend to his mirrors; while pining for affections, this internet tale, as becoming a theologian: those long studies, grappling with ethics, at course this fire writhing—that deep agony; that old person; this shift through lights that brilliant woman: if known his life, seated at tribunals, peering at a russet mirror—to have facials, as reborn newly, while feeling so familiar. It comes with pain—this fastidious daughter, our implacable mothers: if time is gracious, that purgatorial soul, that sudden kiss; as reading each letter, glued to pictures, admiring this stealth of aunties: that courageous slant; where children suffer weightless; or arms to ceilings reaching for mercy: this silent death; scratching at nerves; that deep prayer as rebooted. Oh for curses, dabbling in dark magic, affronted that darkness is negative; to sing alleluia, in that rapturous trance, feeling as hearts ponder: that interior life; that exterior mimicry; those lectures as so metaphysical;—this man at measures, examining our curtains, seeping into each pleat—to remember eyes, as everso frightened, at tears to relinquish those activities: those bleeding palms; those grieving nights; that return for lusts—while acres mourn, while fathers churn, as nearly oblivious. I broke from self, this facetious entity, at games as toys as persons; to remember mother, this intelligent woman, abandoned to dregs: to feel at home, to label persons, as dies an inch to more madness: that mystery woman; so obvious our dreads; while centered in this false impression;—as feeling normal, or pining for normality—this ambiguous word; for neither would know, this song of birds, where they gather in droves—to haunt his heart, as bathing in hertz, this miracle storm: as immortal love; this woman our song; as longing one apology—to give by aches, that dramatic exit, that traumatic entrance:—if but a dream, captured in Israel, pitted with Jeremiah: that eunuch pleading; those ankles through mud; our Lord as maneuvering:—if but our justice, as pleading forgiveness—if but a human;—that cornered condition, a generation boxing—this invisible entity; as more our lives, catering illogical thoughts, while pointing unethical palms—to cry our lives, as mere ingestion, our rooms filthy with shamefulness: this Shameless city, so small my thoughts—so large her heart:—those cryptic brains, at arts to receive, this nameless divinity; as sung our eyes, filled with experience, as cursed with insights—that twofold dimension, our children dying for adulthood, a bit oblivious as rightly so;—that gentle mother; that present father; those oblivious siblings; as enjoying Christmas, or becoming Christians, catered but tucked in thoughts: that peak at reason; that sleight of hand; that inner rumbling—to see our minds, this vest of furniture, those encrypted mystics; as loving with distance, to afford catastrophe, while repenting this vatic spin: if but to perish, a soul of dreams, as racing towards realities—where life is gentle, by means quite hectic, while nurtured in a cocoon: those beige eyes; that inescapable; those sights meant for adult eyes; to remember those years, while steeped in ages, chunking mirrors to a furnace; if but a dream, then I’ll awaken, but a scar to a dream.