Reigning Thunder: Tender Touch

Taken to hearts, by zealous woes, this feature an energy;—that winning dejection, our cities contagious, our instincts by sudden joys; to smile by mirrors, or die by thunder, or live by resurrection—that captive ache, that beautiful sail-craft, if but for soreness that tender summer—as torn to outsoar, rapid at an artificer, our wax melting softly—to ponder Descartes, seated at a furnace, steady at ink those ghosts: if but to fly, filming such eyes, at such guilt that folly—as more contentions, to wail his story, if hearts are empathetic; but more to swans, agaze through mischief, a tear for a turtle—as deep affection, our palms aching, that fiery stigmata: as souls churn, our music to spirits, our aches to Sophia—as more a gift, sifted at harmonies, wobbling through existence: that metaphysical, or obtuse justice, feeling that deep concentration; whereto, are secrets, to mesh through activities, this flight as esoteric; to thrum a heart-cymbal, or die a sky-flute, at tears to feel such agonies; wherewith, are instincts, flooded practitioners, at intuitions as a fire; or steep a scar, at hopes for candor, as opposed to a two year catastrophe: that rendered hell, as filled with lusts, a pair oblivious to dying; as more to love, such foresight to withdraw, our illusions as given lights—that feral grin, to seize for seconds, as disheartened love: this lute of liars; that inference as pure; our thoughts to someone genuine: if be it for grace: if be it for deaths: if be it for existence—this pearl of passions, tragic for credence, musing upon antidotes—while conflicted in parts, afflicted with arts, as singing something terrible. We come to flames, this flicker by trumpets, aware of a gentle tug; to wonder of compositions, flipping through Family Guy, perusing our tender egos—if but to see, this feeling of ascension, if but those turquoise dreams; (as seconds shift, to drill our arcs, flavored by deep resistance; those morbid fires, at years to pains, flitting through gentle catapults: if but her mind, as often breeds, I’ll perish a butter-seed): it comes to sorrows, our immortal trinkets, this brooch by brains our energies—that tender chorus, that keepsake relic, such tropes as forbidden; while hell was home, as heaven was foreign, those tall tales told by sufferers: if but our sanctum, this furious contraption, such hypnotic pleasures—while singing amore, or a candent simile, at tears an idyllic volt: (so soft for justice; as never our caress; while years morph into magic).