I
try such arts, captive by Street Fighter,
aware of this precious essence; that
resonant music, that pianist swan, those delicate fingers; as more it was, this
gentle chaos, at deepness such daftness. We treasure by souls, losing so much
to win, this thing of blackness by shelters: that spoken diary; that Zenist
observer; our souls flipping for flitting through cloudberries: that tender
softness; as kissed our brains; this ache which dies through living; as feral
fires, our ruined meadows, this thing by deep effacements: as casual ankhs,
born illuminati, at raptures immortal
texts; to dance by rivers, a hut upon flint, that texture to souls that ball of
fire. I remember tomorrow, that printed voice, our toe-prints a Hollywood
canvas: if but to flee, filled with disdain, charged by so many lies: at
function a star; that rare beauty; splintered by nonsense: to ask us nothing,
so bold a death, at fancies to ruin lives.
I
met a vest, enthused with fancies, driven by charge a remote life: that
wretched song, made perfect through pains, as one constructing symbols. I drew
a swan, tugging midnight hours, flipping for flitting through dreams: that
mystic ache; that purple ink; those indelible wounds. I could to love, as never
this cache, as exclaiming love: as born again, filled with hate, or forgetting
those wretched years; or more to perfect, this terrible person, at woes to
commend saints. I’ll give us wings, associated with spirits, while charmed to
know their names. I’ll cleanse a reservoir, to excavate a petroglyph, while
stippling mercy: that rich excitement, by anger such folly, addressed as
different that treasure; where mothers writhe, pleading for understanding,
oblivious to their behavior. It comes with pains, this eloquent disaster,
attempting to erase our traumas: those troubled thoughts; that deep affliction;
as witnessed a friend’s nucleus.
I
heard a planet, invested in souls, while Love is at balconies: that cultic
dream; to have so much; a group of souls permeated with spirit: that soft song;
that soft endeavor; that indelible iron: if be it this life, cleaving to
ghosts, as sent that second of rapture: as spoken softly; in a world of
arrogance; where said softness is perceived as weakness. I’ve died that lot, as
born to struggle, while others reap rewards; but this is music, as inheriting
riches, that catapulting heart; as more a diamond, to invest in scriptures,
while sewed into gardens: that troubled heritage; those remarkable cymbals;
attempting to side with beauty despite such ugliness: this charm we live; this
arm we seek; as aware to inner violins: that casual light; that frantic glare;
our arcs at war.
