Such
driven chaos, this acapella—at tears this voice as treasured: that inner
scarecrow, as vicious to thoughts, that rabid introject—as coupled with spines,
this line to brains, accused of insensitivities; that magic we sung, as so
nonchalant, our meanings failing to carry distance: that charm by womb; that
ache by scratches; that melody between tears: that broken vase, as achieved his
life, so precious that touch screaming silence; to culture this frog, as
acquitted for ruins, severed by major addictions: that sober web, to carry
confusions, abused by childhood dreams—that paper plate, that flaming link,
those droopy eyes—where mother cringes, at grief to graves, afforded darkness:
that flippant soul, that carnival pain, a group of fathers relishing purgatory;
to have for visions, this cryptic jewel, at refuge seeking clearance—afforded
projections, at wealth to live, if but that cadence that diamond; but hells by
vacuums, meditating sadness, accustomed to this type of misery; to call it
normal, where souls would vie, so inclined to paint a portrait; that tile
perspective, as mosaic chaos, afforded one glance to run. We perish madness,
fevered through gorgeous, at points
to pour into self—this lambent vessel, as cherished that style, accusing jasper
thoughts: that lemon as sweet; that texture as fluid; those limbs betraying
attitudes; to sense perfection, rounded in dejections, suffused with this
ability to fly. I wanted for gems, as aiding this journey, to have given beauty
more than giving self; that faint fiat, as doubted through wisdom, to offend
self by peering into this legacy; to sprinkle by curse, this force of
blessings, appalled by such hesitancy—as born to love, this music of doves,
while at heart a young scrub: if paintings are pure, our dance is complete,
while days are shredded through memories: that dark cologne; that sultry
perfume; this chemistry by sheets our nightmare; to court a fancy, as time is
spinning, while hearts thumb by nuance: those aches to dreams, as feeling
affected, where arts are purple sun-skies: that face to drift, as seconds speak
permanence, where children enforce this ageless process; but shadows to moons,
that jasmine cry, as opposed to letting
life: that candle worn; our jazz as mysterious; those trumpets resounding
perfections; to escape a monster, as losing our course, by force to realign our
vehicles. I die this way, as to feel this way, placing others as centerpieces:
that carpet wine-drop; that ceiling fan; that fabulous piano; to have for
dreams, afforded a young terror, by culture a mass of meetings; where horses
frolic, by winds to mane, accustomed to such simplicity; as beauty speaks,
while jaded a fool, to abolish nothing at such wisdom: those orchestra eyes;
that crease above brows; those aches by words as softly spoken; to condemn his
life, as given his soul, while to perish such butterflies. I love a dream, this
infinite message, as giving life to illusions; to pant by brooks, flavored with
deer intentions, at laws to construct paradise: that tender reed; those fabled
dreams; that scream by arts as barely breathing; as lived a travesty, afforded
such splendor, where two wrapped in ecstasy; as more to visions, traveling a
dozen valleys, asearch for this perfect number; as numerology or psychic amps,
perchance a kiss by feathers: if life is gentle, I’ll caress a dream, afforded
one last dance.
