Knotted by Means of Sanity

Those corridors—as bled his life, as called his waves: irregular methods, cried as beauty, alive that death. There’s undergrowth, that mechanical plague, a man searching through highs—as lived tomorrow, forsaken as days, a closet his brain that match; as broken from madness, but a dream to wilderness—that ache of feelings: that rooted scar, as affecting thoughts, this altered reality; and so blank for motives, a study to a giant, this mysterious person; as incognito, or a woman’s intuition, as depraved and wholesome: those nightmare alleys; those methods by science; that measure as mystical; to deepen death, as receiving lights, our passage fraught by tumbleweeds. I’m but a soul, peering at mirrors, chased and haunted—torn and sewn, affected by seams, leaking into madness: that bottled temper; that harnessed anger; that chase their eyes our souls. There’s life, multiplied in dungeons, appealing by chances; to harvest his dreams, picking at apricots—staring by Orion; as bent by pressures, at love by vest, a bit too cold for feelings—as stripped by feelings, aware of humanness—this study of existence. We see it moving, this flame called life, taken aback by feelings: to know their motives; to hear their dreams; to shift by essence their lives. It becomes mental, this activity of lights, seeking by cause and effect: this magnet arc, seated at a terminal, our trains as tropes; that opaque sound, streaming heartcaves, alive by aches that soulquake. We could but live, as running through dells, while refusing to pause; but this is murder, a soul writhing, our minds creeping as we dream. I remember pressure; I feel pressure; as believing pressure is always near: a nature howling; a city growling; our passions mangled in knots; to have lived his life, amazed and torn, seeking a particle of solace; to find that dream, as returning to cycles—if but to outwit said cycles: that casual pursuit, that hankering sky-vision, those clogs at woes their treks; as but a wound, as joys water eyes—this feeling sketched in minds. I captured it not, while at tears its fuse, adrift, pitted emotions; to hold concrete, appearing in camouflage—a bit too hectic our dreams—as paved in abstracts, at war the positivist, while a finger to an ocean. I know not the waves, at love with waves, attempting to escape said waves; where gravity tugs, a man his reflection—this carrying of mirrors; to find we love, as notwithstanding life, a bit concerned our lights; but this is friction, our stalwart souls, faced by calamities: this lonely vessel; at heights a dream; travelled by measure a mere thought.