We
side with love, this disruptive force, at course a miracle. We seek ambrosia,
if more by faith, to have such convergence—as more a dream, this teenage
fantast, asearch a salient arc; whereas, for rapture, this constant luxury,
insistence upon reason; or torn
anxieties, this haunted castle, our genealogies at pace with spirits: that deep
explosion; that sudden switch; as one analyzing internal affairs; to see
conviction, as sprouting undergrowth, this pyramid of persons; as mother
stipples, a legion of fortresses, by gift of but no words; that serene affection, or a bit coarse, while seeping
into hearts; to form beliefs, that
mental chateau, that chalkboard of tenets—but are precepts, those
seasons by change, as evidence uproots convictions—if said a soul, chasing but truths, at terrors to find a group of
spirits. I’ve shared a secret, with more to explore, as to savor those
enlightened moments—as chi to spark, or a voice to speak, as treading forward
our course: to study Buddha, in harmonies those thoughts, while comparing
lives; or fire’s meditation, as absorbed in trance, to see for shades such
ghosts; or read a soul, taking by chance, at chase by no means: a casual person, connecting to humans, lost in carnal
pleasures; that fate of souls, eschewing spirituality, lost in one particular
grotto; where things are smooth, aside for anguish, as appeased with luxuries:
that shifty illusion, or maybe a drug, as finding this need for something; as true to life, this thirst
through spirits, or gravel as a kiss while grieving; as more that light, to
shine upon both, where rewards vary in texture. It’s a matinee; or more a
squall; or more this sullen hesitation; but here’s a secret, this angst of
life, as incumbent upon souls; where both feel anguish, as both shall mingle,
while one is a bit more grounded; indeed, this fiat, a man as mere a donkey,
while wailing at this prophet: that intricacy; those mosaic passions; our
aesthetics as reaching for but a second in time; whereto, something immortal,
as sickle’d through generations: that steep chaos; that majestic reservoir;
that feeling in cadence with souls; as rooted in madness, this psychical chase,
while at peace this cycle of souls; wherefore, we examine Christ, as seated at
tables, but a moment to evince life: that mental melee; those profound
legacies; a series of instruments—if but this life, soaring as flying through
spaces—as but a dream, this heightened crescendo, this indescribable force; as
feeling life, by gesture our souls, as worthy of our wages; this secret of
souls, hearted by pandemonium—innocent as souls; this shift in thoughts, that
intricate overseer, at woes to maintenance life; inasmuch, as games, this
trickster by course, as flooded by illusions: to thresh as hearts: to determine
truths; to sing aloud—this rhythm of waves, as studied by traditions, while
harmonizing our spirits: if but a dream, we ignore experience, as dewey-eyed,
afflicted souls—until that moment, as allotted our mistakes, where reason seeks out its reflection.
