Greetings,
Love; this feral wilderness, as fraught with anchors—such tender bliss, while
surfing waves, adrift our horizon: that achy soul; those various raptures;
those enchanting roses: where time is witness, that interior promise, while
afforded one dream; to pillage doors, while rising glory, agaze by innocent
deaths—that Cajun wisdom, afloat by Paris, accustomed to walls. Our nights to
luxury, racing through fires, every increment a baptism; those sky-visions, as
sky-brown eyes, and curly vines; this life of souls, that subtle energy, at
tales, that burgundy heart; or more to rising, too aloft to see, while bathing
in sky-waters. We drift this wave, melding prose, eager to cross your T’s: our
telic hearts; infused with blues; as jazzy as ancient scholars: afforded
passions; not merely screams; as cushioned our souls; that far away planet, as
courted through intuition, so aware this person peeking by mirrors.
Day two
It
becomes television, this movie as life, evaluating characters; that outer drama,
that typical countenance, those palms to floors while screaming; this life of
angles, feeding ferrets, alarmed by nuances; albeit, to silence, that inner
fire, flapping a pond of geese—that miracle swan, by grace an angel, a bit
frantic by machination; as life for clearance, that realization, weary of
incurring bad karma: that mystical eye, while channeling fevers, too concerned
with mediocrity; for all is newness, adrift a scar typical winds, while
challenged this lake of grandeur.
Lights
are spinning, by pure calculations, as on-seers are oblivious: that mettlesome
mind; that searing wit; that ensuing distrust; where souls mingle, enchanted by
truths, this search for clarity; as musicality, or instrumentals, at agonies to
distinguish waves. It becomes television, those deep illusions, at wonder those
infallible positions; as speaking by harms, accused as gadflies, for pointing
at fallacies—or more for contradictions, those weary perfections, while
swimming in mire; but more to love, as remaining silent, until angst flees its
cocoon.
Day Three
Somewhere
an arc, that subtle thump, as art’s communication; to drift afar, running
through orchards, plucking orchids, wishing upon whimsies—to see for hearts,
this space in souls, as gravid a brain-quake—while feeling dizzy, at wakes a
dream, to envision our legacy: that preparation; those applications; that
online labyrinth; to see perfection, in little a mind-well, as kissed a feather
those sparks. There’s something to
us—attempting at words, while stirring cores: those achy roots; those
expectations; as passing an onus by torch; such fluff, as witnessed
disjunction, while another nods in agonies: this place in us; this ontic
realization; while sketching a clown; that remote island, as lonely a gavel,
where souls seek solace: that measure in time; that non-address; this ark as
merely symbolic; to grip a petal or floor a pedal, while halted by visions:
that gorgeous sunset; those wavy clouds; that purpose in lights a whisper; as
daughters float, by rich acacia or oaken sap—that wooden panel; that porcelain
vase; that helium balloon; as seeing portals, embraced by life, to realize
oblivion—that coarse ache, fleeing through wildlife, while petting a
jaguar—that miracle fire, as accused of love, to have gained a fortress: this
curious vision, those jasper screams, that gown and hat; where spirits watch,
as disenchanted, tugging at intentions: where unsaid was brutal, while comments
were affective, afloat our colors.
