Clear Fog

So frantic by hearts, this waning fortress, but a dungeon in time; as weary filaments, accustomed to mixtures—your being fading through fixtures: this casual dance, while alive at currency, such sickness for souls; where mercy is myth, while feeling indebted, or more an act of charity; so more to waning, as lives dysfunction, by measures that spectacular scream.  There’s lights afar, that miracle tragedy, at races to outrun sorrow; this mystical field, as rooted in majesty—that thin lens as immortal; where love depresses, while refusals constrict, as merry-go-lucky is forgery; insofar, as courtesy, by pleasures such shame, while engaged in metamorphosis; to see signs, as retreating afar, or too close to respond—that inner vehicle, that somber gait, our humility grounded in senses: if but a scare, to jog a soul, at emphasis to push a button; but what is life, this acting of souls, far too restricted to mingle. We chose life, standing upon swings, by midair to flip; as something to strangeness, while something to graces, at terrors to know our places: that mental ache, as mere in passing, to know your functions—as sheer a miracle, outliving turmoil, at roots a series of joys; while to mourning, this man of words, balanced enough to smile; while falling pits or uprooting agonies or outlining this vest of sins; this blessing of wits, as surpassing transgression, insomuch, as agitating particular thoughts; to withdraw with time, a bit busy with life, as, too, a bit disappointed; our forests by mirrors; our feathers by triumphs; our formations by studies—as rare to flattery, as seeing your brain, by weather to out-believe passion: this ink as dripping; this in-for outs; this feeling by horizons: as casual breaths, seeping into wilderness, as one known afar. We call it tragedy, as opposed to us, this face as knitted with bars; while missing life, our dreary sights, where many are accruing pleasures; where love is roses or even gardenias or exotic memories—that inner pavement, to have said so little, while at wonders about this element missing; to find with arts, this shredded illusion or more that light pointing at expectations; where souls flurry, this fury of madness, while others stand oblivious. (I know a miracle; I fathom forbidden; I drift concentration: as something wanes; while something grows; by admission a fire; so more to flying, as alive at love, while avoiding shame: this place in souls, that inculcated scream, as too close for full recognition).