Nothing Else Ever Matters

I alive in sorrow, to witness primitive eyes, those threaded diamonds; as more oak-wood, or cedar confessions, as cried our mourning(s); to live excitedly, or cleave desperately, as ever it matters: those faraway castles, our seams to brains, this deep affectionate: to cry his life, performed in blood, as leaking acids: that crazed confession, to blast his brains, as given that warm depth: this phoenix star, our hours to Neptune, our moons as grieving: to see us perish, that fevered goodbye, at ecstasies that calling armoire: to see a face, this ancient goddess, as adorned in addictions: that feeble glance, that lethargic gesture, that languishing voice; as rich in passion, this abased mirror, as feeling such trauma. I alive in sorrow, a sparrow homeless, as praying that nest; to see perfection, seated upon droopy eyes, that cadence tugging his sobriety; at wealth a star, steeped in poverty, to hold but a second of affections: those morbid lines, that deep romantic, those verses a curse to loins; to have effects, this pause in time, where love appears incandescent: that fabulous arch, those waving particles, each lace a thread to shames. I cry this ocean, pearly-black-blue, enlove this fragrance of deaths; to shift at turns, steep a terror’d heart, as us crazed as petrified. It once a furnace, adrift mangled luxuries, to have discrepancies—this far this kiss, as tasting its misery, while addicted those vicissitudes—that life of pagans, as granted that life, afforded this Egyptian travesty:—our souls to Europe; petals to ponds; this song as birds, that whisper—as featured in cinemas, this lady of cries, as one pleading those sights: if but his soul, or Antarctic mirrors, as cold as perception that fragrance: that frigid glare, that warm embrace, those passions forming limbs—to see our minds, filtered in madness, where love is earned that river; to trek forever, grounded in sulfur, that closer to our volcanoes. We die with time, at wonders our legacies, accustomed to a lethargic sensation: to have that chase; that wretched art, at turns that force for immortality: that aching sea; those dejected deserts; that cache in both that sentience. It’s more to life, as entering eternity, at desires, that green-turquoise.