We
capture but glimpses, running forests’ fires, fevered through calmness; this
aching soul, where diamonds peak, at heights this terrible confusion; while
sifting reigns, this casual torment, less than three feet that psych; as
burning brains, plus, leaking mucus, our wounds threshing mysteries: that
wretched cadence; that absent intensity; those bails bottled in turmoil; to
fetch after fetching, this illusive chaos, seated, pitted by epiphanies; as
chanced our palms, that florid attitude, sprouting nexus that private thought;
where nights are plaids, this board of checkers, while void of gray
whispers—this space maddening, this cloth as daftness, our souls as
abandoned—if morbid his mind, this vex of compassion, so close to utter
disgust—as oh that feeling, as opposite of feelings, that simultaneous feeling—as
imagined his life, but texture our sameness, as color confuses normality. I sit
indebted, as never to speak it, at wonders for intensions; (that is), Was it
meant for goodness, or a product of temperament—this chase through nights, our
furious tempers, as sighted that first glance; to chance midnight, seeping into
cellos, at course a violent diatribe—while shook our brains, to unravel
dynasties, peering at discomfort but an aura. It comes to punish, to arrange
his life, while taking for giving something lost. It appears as riddle, slanted
by disease, where a second of clarity points to jagged mirrors—that thought we
stole, as forsaking fantasies, while running like thieves from reality: that
blanket definition; that indelible chart; our mercies at chaos aloof to
normality; so label me anything, but never that ghost, as subject to a hosts of
strangers—or more to Magog, slipping through Gog, a territory of file
impressions—as sensing confusion, accused by breath, as mother lived steeped in
black magic—this tragic reality, to meet those eyes, a year for airing out
dirty laundry: that fabulous cry, so lost for greeting, at peace we die that
train’s return: as envisioned terror, gnawing wormwood, flitting as scudding as
flying—to flee this pit, our patient retrievals, at wonders this terrible art. I
gained infection, while losing a soul, at times, a hideous upheaval—that
courtside salute, as tragic that math, this chase through city meadows—to find
with essence, this clash of brains, or more, this clash or personas—as livid
mysteries, or mental lagoons, as surging this life that muddy attraction—if
cursed his heart, than cursed her soul, appalled by wicked affections: that
beast of wiles, as cornered in paucity, a fleet of souls outwitting souls.
I return
to spaces, as furious jumping-jacks, or more this rain as tick-tack-toe—to find
for solace, this ache of solace, stationed as a stale persona—or more a calm
fool, instead of that flux, where personas dial through gestures;—this person
of training, those brown ocean eyes, as hidden in turquoise rain-beams—where
souls perish, if but to live, again for lost this new battle!
We
idle in madness; we surface as stallions; our days congested with feelings—as
singing eternity, or bleeding fleetness, to have known such a glorious
perspective—that welkin dream, whereas, to lose effects, while screaming into a
new person—those reaped analyses, that rope unthreaded, our cries to something
of more importance.
