It’s
major our hill, our palm-fraught-bees—our immortal sentence; to live adjusted,
this miracle by love, as never our faces: our rabid spirits, at force this
balm, addressed as curious souls. We yen for mischief, our worlds adverse, as
too embedded for closure. I’ve ran that course, this delirious omen, our glens
at shames our climates; to sudden a star, mourning graves, a tear as segue;
that inner dimension; that canal to misery; that joy by waves our statutes—to
die as rivers, our burgundy skies, at shivers those midnight trembles…that
other person, aloof so near, a candent fire…as caressed that soul, failing for
falling impatient, at lure that ache that lush oasis…this style of contagions,
to have it by love, as too close that frantic kiss… as hell evolves, at rescue our
souls, as made through Logos—to
seethe after panic, gripping soil, speaking those un-sound-ed words: oh our
chariot, confused by faces, by far a dozen fancies…to hold so dear, this mythic
fantasy, this mystic dynasty—at souls his mind, abandoned his childhood,
running this forest of dregs. There’s birds wailing, at marbles our souls,
convinced by far our sorrows—this melancholic, as clinical skates, our sessions
rooted-disbeliefs—or more that falcon, to swarm our brains, while seated in
un-realness: this never-he-should,
this ever-they-die, where both are
melded as saints; to die that feeling, purged through transgressions, a bit
exhausted that life…as singing madrigals, or existing in shadows, while athirst
those compositions…to perish that love, this liquid memoir, as never to touch
eyes: those subtle gnats; that unheard language; that ensuing anger: to have us
dance, four tiles apart, as devastated by disappearance: this course in time,
this trestle as grieving, our aches as immortal bliss…that intricate heartache,
as death our souls, blended into infinite existence; as wand immortals,
chiseled into gravel, alive that fire.
Could
one imagine, this immortal tale, flayed in hellish flames; to course through
hearts, this lavish insanity, this world ten tiers in silence; as molded
perfection, this imperfect balance, as crazed as angry wolves: that deep
penalty, as loving in shadows, while faces remain a mystery: this touch of
lights, this inner grave—those seconds elated by nonsense; as proving nature, related
to minds, where reality becomes a sullen intensity.
