We
cadge our freedoms, a sloth at a barnacle, awaiting our metamorphosis—seeing
into eyes, that haunting reality, but teased by flitting beauty: at errors our
agendas; something so easy; while depreciating souls; as never to pause,
reaching forever, running through humans; at search for gentilities, to harvest
that soul, while knitting sabotage. There
was energy, this low reservoir, filled with bestiality. There were tears, as
scribbled by pains, as forged through deception; while feeling a rescue, this
self-illusion, where said occurrence knitted sabotage. I’ll retreat.
I
waver through meadows, racing on bikes, pausing to float a kite: such childhood
madness, that infant tyro, to become a monster: that torn psychology, to see it
as perfections, this adult racing towards kindness—as lived his life, a fist
full of bars, a mind three tomes thick. If be it love, to placate pain, I’ll
endorse such therapy; but dreams are opaque, while stars are so distant, as is, it was, it shall be; this latent
charm, at tears to let go, but this is life: this Latin scripture; this French
dialectic; that series of sagas speaking tongues; to invade justice, faced at a
guillotine, headlong into a dissertation—if but his life, peering at daughters,
attempting to feel every sentence—this deep scar, this hapless muse, as one
pulled so far aback. It becomes senseless, those compositions, conditioned to a
corner for writers; but it cannot live, while humans soar, or I must be
mistaken: this hellish pit, searching for guileless deeds, while a vulture
beams with brilliance; this age old dilemma, as far-reaching as Sirach, as
devastated as Moses—that trenchant oasis, to fawn with such purpose, as wanting
something as opposites. I’ll steal a glance, at wonders such beauty, accused of
becoming sightless: those tears they utter; those rumors received; that doubt
of redemption; for holding to death, is more exciting than glory, as not a
sentence imbibed—as faucet to drain, or rain to earth, our effluent destinies;
as reading a psych, to pause through seeing, where pain struck a nerve—as
becoming angered, for sights despise wanting, while courage leads to
liberation: that vicious canine; those treacherous hoses; that club beating
Billy brainless. If but to live, to surpass such images, where terrors redeem a
select few: that crawling wit, that woman dying, our eyes oblivious to grandpa:
that friendly pain; that restrained laugh; those moments, that death, playing
pretend: such caprice, as ignored deeply, as one believes in deception. I’m
unspoken, this tacit fool, but a burgeon in college—racing that mini-bike, afloat
with kites, staring at this miraculous future: those treacherous valves; that
remarkable engine; this social transmission; as torn to witness, this hatred
from love, an addict, a game, we all die.
I’ll play a part, as to come alive, then hell unites with heaven a dragon: this
curious rescue, to watch it morph, that breach pitted in souls; to ponder
Clinton, a legacy lost, that barefaced infraction—as seen in parts, despite a
fortress, where they murdered Jesus. I cry this heart, as one distinctive, reaching
for black-sheep status—where others replace mirrors, to see as sameness, while
screaming like maniacs: this place of pressures; this valve unclogged; while
too much power destroys. I must to wonder, of what he knows, peering at that
genus; to assuage such treachery, two bills, plus, a sandwich, where hell is
rooted in genetics: this casual chaos, our swan as established, while our
brains shift through radiators: that flippant style; that demonic ambrosia;
that salient deception; as flipping his life, while nonchalant, as feeling
nothing: that space in souls, bitter for hagridden, adjusting for more
deception.
