We
take to loses, at sins our nature, slithering through justice; that cultic web,
beyond cultic pools, as rinsed but muddy—this grin of sorrows, that perfect
pitch—if not for deaths, our waning growths, seated a furnace of cries—as dies
our wisdom, to suffer simplicity, this ark we strive against—while seeking
lightning, this rich ecstasy, to return to simplicity. I’ve laughed our
nightmare; I’ve cringed our daymares; but nothing becomes as misery: that
wretched harpoon; bleeding intestines; our guts wrenched asunder; but called
this life, a mallet a wound, as sealed with leaking cements—that custom of
habits, to wail this lot, while at tears to hate our futures: if but a soul,
hankered by sinews, at fears to shed such scales. I’ve died a smidgen, losing
that charming smile, at pressures to hold conversations: that tinge of sinning;
that shy disappointment; those ways speaking beneath bars—as courage his life,
peering at daughters, to imagine this shifty coldness: that welkin hell; as if
rage is human; while seeping into rivers—if but to bathe, to wash trespasses,
if but to rejuvenate—that inner juvenile, those offcolored rooms, as sang
phantoms to souls—that inner movie, stationed at replays, to have known this
passion. Oh for clashing arcs, to slither through fairness—beneath gavels
seeking eternity—to muster that grin, while laughing at features, this mirror
so cruel to clarities. We sung death, accustomed to dying, at grand
expectations—to fix this life, as incumbent to newness, our souls reaping
taxes—that sentence grieving, those arrows bleeding, that venom of times—as
burned through justice, as mourning justice, while taking issue with this
fantastic judge. I laugh for sanity; I appear in silence; I’ve arranged a solid
paragraph—if but for venting, this wealth of years, as to have subjugated
brains—that repetition, to demonize love, while slithering towards happiness—that
fallen cry, as whispered his days, while effected through affectations—that
screaming moon, that burgundy sun, those jasmine stars: if but to retreat, as
prepared to advance, while never to forget—this ink of passions, where life is
effected, while to pause becomes cruelness; so more to shadows, a fist full of
spikes, this slithering sensation—as fueled with powers, this will but waning, while sighted that
distant finishing line; to garner passions, as effused with strengths, to dance
as a grand piano; indeed, that breath, that jaunt to warm waters, while trying
to forget life.
