It’s
so subtle, that sudden avalanche, as dear that surprise; to be held those
thoughts, to tread inner cities, that luxury your heart: our shiver at sparks;
that castle by brains; our terrace fevered with scriptures—as acclaimed your
mind, singing silver sadness, at pleasures that deeper pleat; to excavate life,
seeking by arts—that cache through marshy deserts: oblivion fire; seated that
center; while pieces are threshed: mental lagoons; those talkative ducks; that
hour fueled by destiny; to cry his soul, mending particles, this sheath as
falling to silence—that sickle, picking at roots, by mere measure a thought:
oblivious eons; oblivious temperaments; something so near but unseen; to have
that cycle, this schism of frustrations, while pointing that sun as abstract:
too evolved that light; too fluid our concrete; too detrimental our desires—as
casual passions, amuck our psyches, becoming this raging vampire: at tears this
arc; at hells this sylvan; at pleasures our distortions—to give such minds,
this fair delusion, in order that morning trek: to shift our brains; feuding
realities; at war this person our mirrors: if only so gentle, this angst of
angels, apace a series of whetstones; to have that feeling, seeping as
luxuries—our souls at unawares: that lotic flame; that kiln aspark our keels;
this ferric spirit as fire: if only our souls, to become that legend, as held
responsible: that inner dahlia, as steep our pits, alive by chance your music:
our humble hertz; this stream as oblivion; this poison by angst a
contradiction: if only your mind, as to release this phantom; but arcs afoul
that legacy—as peering softly, to feel that cadence, while stirred to flames:
if but that soul—that inner kiss, as becoming eternal—to chase for winds, this
moving obstacle, trekking an antre with friends; this cave of hearts, to know
our beliefs, while channeled this secret of brains—as never spoken, or forever
spoken, while reaching for closure; that rich afflatus, that divine
inspiration, while chasing a shadow—where souls linger, that yen for reality,
while semi-un-shadowed—to think your mind, this gilt of gestures, our poison
becoming sweet: if be it this life, this puce affair, as alive as jutted seas;
to catch by chance, this deep reservoir, at sudden this vatic cry: that river’s
Om, this delicate echo, our faces
scribbled by fates—this plural activation, as time is shifting, our shattering
particles; to find this essence, this
telic design, as aloof dearly—while ever so near, this faceless Ghost, our
drillings into cadence; as so familiar, our deep education, through arts our
experience; to hear those cries, this intricate haze, our chimneys seeking
feathers: if but to fly, as ever our fruits, speckled upon oceans: if died this
life, to live that vision, our russet and rusted passions; where love is gray,
but often gentle, as depending upon worlds—that place we see, as detached
dearly, at experience our alienation:
that velvet city; our inner spruce; our fruitage as distant: if chased that
sky, at feelings this urge, while excited to communion—as too, a bit
sullen.
