What
through days, our captured souls, feeling through tentacles; for what was
worth, shadowed in graves, this soul as dreaded? We imagine dynamics, searching
for comforts, a bit astray our measures. Its mere mechanics, little for
otherwise—while pining for a fortress; to let us dream, our treasures in boxes,
our confliction our realities. We met by
chance, our distant souls, as mirrored in behavior; to give as received, this
feeling of judgments, a bit raveled by escapes; to invade his life, by arts our
sore returns, while angers become petit scars.
I knew for passions, that torn excursion, while whittled from ourselves:
that kind proposal; that miscalculation; our waves to myriads. It becomes wedged—those deep emotions, as
undergoing absence; this space in selves, as casual observations, at tears our
clichés. I thought to withstand that
ceiling of eyes, to appreciate a soul: those reasons through sciences; those
steep experiences; our days as mechanics; to operate on selves, as reaching
infinity, those tales of tragedy: while nonchalant; this protection of self;
where remnants awaken heart-drums. I
lied to mirrors—they stood in awe—while reflecting truths. I lied to self, while misinformed, for
feelings are persuaded rarely by thoughts.
They come as mysteries, afforded our correlations, inasmuch as our
standards for truths. We appear to
selves, as we decline observations, funneled through tunnels of perception;
those square diamonds, to notice something’s missing, while chasing that remote
dream; wherefore, life at a distance, fueled through cadence: that tender
rhythm, as to adore souls, this worth as retrieving emotions; where eyes
bounce, a bit for pouty, occasioned through songs. I’ll speak to joys, as one prone to sorrows,
where normalities are afforded their highs: that deep solace, enmeshed in
mental activities, at souls that tender affection; or more to corridors, those
long pathways, peeking into a series of rooms: where pains are gentle, that
chase of simplicities, our worries soothed through kind words: our delicate
seeds; our arts as received; our waltz this flavor of existence; to kiss a
flower; to become a lotus; to meditate unto that peak: as absorbed in light
that time of change, while steeped in mystic madness: those deep reflections; that
wounded palm; those energies leaping from our heartcaves; to know resistance,
as mere a pleasure, awaiting transformations.
We know such joys, as tinted by life—retrieving our treasures. I’m prone to temperaments; as affected deeply;
while seated in joys: to capture phenomenon; this portrait of lives; our eyes
tender through angst that joy. It comes
this way, as conditioned through wisdom, or painted by experience; as shifting
thoughts, alive a soul, measured by symbols.
