Reflective Faces

I progress mirrors; as frightened of mirrors; looking while shifting our gaze to mirrors—those horrid skies; that terrific laughter; that climb to mire our mirrors. I awaken mirrors, peering for hours, if but that ghost to appear: that inner dementia; to feel it arise; that phantom by scars those wings: if but by whistling, that child by hazes, our roses suffocated by weeds—as living deaths, those gothic churns, reaching for language our midnights. It came with laughter; a valley of credenzas; while parted every drawer by red rivers: those catfish eyes; those armoire brains; that sea at sawing our comforts; while love but breath,—that multi-woman, as creative as theatre those sorrows—as melic fools, as drama our souls, while thetic our morals as grieving; to want that kef, as ingested laughter, while saddened our morbid returns; wherewith, are briers, while chasing prophets, our souls cemented to madness: if but our freedom, that terrific freedom, as more to deaths that race through freedoms—as finding solace, in sheer designs, where angst was welcomed as comforts. I saw beauty, enmeshed in accents, ascending as falling this call for mercy: that tragic soul, as born to tragedies, holding a bipolar father; as mother guzzled, to scold Ms. Comatose, affected at self that contemning mirror—where life was justice, according to a pasted soul, embedded in patterns our transmigration: that flippant style; as loved by souls; by measures to affront that first encounter; whereto, those eyes, those horrific eyes, bulbous by nature that monster—while screaming at mother, to pardon father, while both knew more our city dragons. I’m lost this way, as revealing truths, a man that childhood prison—to find for comforts, this inner ability, as to admeasure sciences in mere seconds: that steep resistance; that season of ecstasy; as altered beyond stigmatisms: that courageous soul, without patience for solace, as never a mention of mother—those parallels; those shattered visions; that tale as told through cries; to live a sin, that deep transgression, while to utter, “I love you.” It comes to guilt—or more social crimes, while authorities bat an eye; for times are cruel, while life is loved, as one abased by joys—this caricature, our portrait by grounds, while building a solid future: those terrific laughs; those fantastic mirrors; our temperaments abased as denigration. I’ve come to love, a tragic existential, while seeking a pragmatic life: that kiosk of tortures; that arcade of existence; those artists by measures of psychoses—wherewith, her soul, as giving just enough, to ignite a firestorm. I crave it more, those frantic mirrors—that ingested dialogue; where mother dwells, a tree by statics, as electrocuting neurons: that innocent anguish, as morphing into rage, to become this livid analysis—as parted in bliss, stippled in chaos—that kiss but a mile to reason; hereby, to end, as endless, whereby, appalled to have adored these travesties.