I
swelter divinity, as torn in knots, this version of a good person; to inspect doves,
flipping for flapping, a coup of sadness—while peering outwards, a shadow to
caves, exclaiming, This is reality.
We know impression, this invisible force, admiring attributes; to die such
passion, as crawling such distance, our sun dripping inks—that colorful grace,
as met a flame, to unlock his dungeon—that glorious glow, infused by persons,
as tapping into his God: this venture of soulquakes; this skeleton-nightmare;
this patience that cleaves to cloud-beams—as cultured disorder, at
sky-treasures, aloof to salience. I heard silence, this screeching loudness,
that inner cacophony—as torn in knots, a purpose through sessions, a fist
filled with pills: our young tears, to have forgiven so much, by activities to
breathe: if only those lights, scribbled as cessations, our lives blotted by
remedies: if only our deepness, this hellish divinity, while scrambled our
intuitions. It records grace, our jagged entrails, this mirror-lightning; as
zenic causes, to pause by Aum, or some version that nature—while torn to
justice, alive by daughters, this glory despite its tragedy—as music
deconstructs, as niceness becomes terrible, as analyzed that type of sameness:
so bold our nights; so cold our warmth; as too conscious for falderal: that
fresco-sky; our inmost anxieties; our nightlights of unrest; to courage this
life, a phantom as a gusset, such devotion to fall this floor-bed. I’m still a phoenix, such claims for
strengths, nearly torn apart; to utter that love, if but our benefits,
relishing in one’s deaths; as more to greatness, our shoulders slumped, at
wonders our minds’ activities: that frightened shadow; that pensive daze; those
memories causing beads of sweat: if ever that light, such passion as poison,
our nectars damn-torn-formless; while seconds to grayness, watching his eyes,
to shift that turn; for deep that rite, infused with mother, as gravid our
swivet-fortunes: our murals grieving; our image as impeccable; as others are crawling
through dung—this place of hurts, that cygnet he saw, such sweltering
divinity—to cause our lives, a heart at mistakes, so full, explosive, a fire—if
lived those days, as crazed as asylums, peering at fulgent nonsense: this space
we cleave, while deep analyses, pretending we see humans—as mere spectacle,
snow covered dung, a sanctum by chance of pain—to utter, Madness, that cause for unrest, as lived his music; this instinct
dying, this phoenix rising, after so many mishaps; accused of misery, a token
as soul, racing towards complexion—to know his life, as soaring through Mecca,
or at tears this inner Cabbala. We live at aches, a lyric to souls, excused by
mere grayness: this flying dream, our hearted confetti, that saga by skies a
fire; to have that mind, at wretched silence, such grace that silence; as
scribbling love, while sighted dejectedly, at wars to unravel moments of
lemonade: our mothers' wrists, or that faucet of water, as more a bag of sugar;
to meet such terror, abroad a storm, internal an arc; where addicts sprout, a
village of personalities, assuming normalities; if more to perish, an inner
professor, attempting to outwit images.
