Reflexive Young Eyes

It becomes us, this deep omission, to hear—amazed—as rage ensues: those grievous eyes, as pleading forgiveness, content with our deaths; to reflex life, that broken soul-law, our intestines churning; as cried lights, trekking pathways, a furry of neurotransmitters; whereto, an agitation, this familiar newness, but a brain to vacuums: that silver spider; that vapid instinct; those years as trained a warrior; wherewith, those scars, embedded in spirits, our mothers participating. It tarries as panic, this flippant disgust, a pack of souls our Father’s perfection; that deep mistake, as cornered our eyes, this thing that language as too many words—to ingest life, feuding our songbirds—those aches this land of betrayals; whereat, are souls, melting into demons, our contours screaming. We could to live, fishing from fears, at terrors that psychotic mirror; or more to mastery, evolved as personas, at once, an insidious root—as eyes hurt, to grieve admittance, coming to a space of inflections: those petit joys, as morbid cries, a fury of something lethal; where ink splatters, that ruined blouse, while scribbling an opus;—those days to famine, a dozen tales, as seen those private perspectives; to scream at life, as tired maturity, at wonders, that chaos of souls; to see it bending, this serpent of years, a fist full of fruits. It shouldn’t be, while rendered as compliant, at demands for repentance: to take for soul, this angst of souls, while forced to atone for apples: that velvet ache, those russet dreams—that favor afforded a silent soul. It becomes mystic, that deep majestic, our esoteric woes; to drift by cadence, this nature of wolves, a lion too far our deserts; whereat, are dangers, by which, are terrors, if so be it that justice. We see patterns; or private desires; as wretched as a moonless sky. We hear lies, as losing years, to stumble nonchalance: that horrible person, at wars for secrecy, demanding we ignore our lying eyes; to fence this way, traveling cultic gates, forbidden to enter truths. It grumbles this way, at wonders such panic, where souls have failed to administer studies; that cry for complaisance, or this plucking of feathers, to mis-educate our Love: that privy as unseen; that person as perfect; where time forbade that image: this terrible soul, as blighted with errors, while chasing this voice of truth: that horrible mind, as trekking philosophies, as born of dregs; this deep mistake, while seated at perfect, our eyes barely at stability: those devious ills; that tragic life; that heartfelt shame; while pointing pitchforks, ablaze a scarecrow, as favored hypocrisy.