Monday, April 10, 2017

We Are Unaware of Perceptions, Where Perceptions Dictate Behavior

I love with passion, an inner ventriloquist, a mental contortionist; to find your heart, beating with cadence, our eyes your soul a miracle. If time is delicate, this rabid ritual, to offset your agonies; this cry by wishes, as aches by visions, our moons at sequences; to feel sporadic, as caged a bird, musing through spirits; this outer Maya, this vigil Natasha, this heartened Tracy: if cold our nights, then warm our waves, at terrors to feel—this electric arc, those falling towers, our rhythms at war; or dangers we live, terrified through medias, to arrive at something beautiful: that christic soul; that yogic brain; that medium at arts our resurrections; to favor our lot, while chased about, fleeing parental prisons: those deep fears; that priestly admonishment; that angelic seamstress; as parted our lives, trekking a whetstone, immersed in German prose. I re-awaken, as harshly asleep, resting in false impressions; to harness mistakes, as peering at madness, ashamed to have features that reflect: that casual pull; to become an ass; while words linger in dungeons: this chilly countenance, protecting a fortress—heavily guarded by love-wings. I seep and fall, crawling across tarantulas, peering at serpents; to see that smile, created in minds, while laughing at mirrors: that beige insanity; that innocent music; those terrors roaming our vast horizon: that fluid psych; that cautious psych; those un-vetted perceptions—as steeping into consciousness, as appearing in shadows, as radical American flags: those same colors, marching our souls, at horrors to have lived—this feeling of tyrants, at beliefs a private image, as if all threshed our minds: this daughter of souls; this fever of hearts; this rich contradiction: our living oxymoron, paved in booths, while a bit worried by attractions; to scold our souls, at magic that art, as mirrors rage at natures: this singing scale, a bit imbalanced, at kites that roaming thought. We die this mischief, afraid to feel, where others stand at oblivion. It comes to brains, those flights of dreams, as wanting this thing we disdain; not as us, but more as them, while our towers remain standing: this curious feeling, shifting in thoughts, to know a man as but an illness: this inch to moons, this cadence to rivers, this feeling we must endure; for hectic are turns, as to see a person, where it’s easier to address an illness; but this is life, this love of graves, seeking at churns. I disappear, fleeing to lagoons, petting a cheetah: those marvelous paws; that trendy gaze; that terror by far an animal; as living sightlessly, as seeing eternity, while oblivious to time; to give a soul, as stolen from life, this woman a piece of ambivalence. It could be justice, this world of feelings, streaming as rising to fall perceptions—if more a dream, I’ll never awaken, a bit aloof. 

Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunde...