I
see us, such embedded screams, while losing texture; aloud as graces, this
space of Quixote, those countryside jeers; our courage by stars, infused a
dream, gripping palms in prayer; our mystic limbs, bleeding injustice, at woes
to cherish afflictions: that inverted mirror; those welkin leaves; our designs
to destiny. I see us, adoring distance, as pure concentration, our leaping
arts; by consideration, that inner fuse, conflicted with thoughts: our valleys
morphing; our kisses waning; at sudden, such rejuvenation; and angels swarm,
this swamp of dungeons, pitted with Jeremiah—that lasting Aum, as fire to gods,
where agony became richness: that magnet opus, as lived our tragedies, abusing
our screams; an earth by stilts, to effuse catastrophe, while pleading this
absent affection. Such confusion, to outlive convenience, while groping silent
walls—that stalking vestibule, that lurid flower, our inquiries as complete. I
lost a dream, those years to violence, while horrified by traditions: those
casual dictums; those rabid fiats; our texture by cryptic amazements: this soot
of souls, embodied in growths, while afloat such cadence; to sing as sought,
this feeling of losing, while gaining by new shadows; that curious madness, as
by kinship, ablaze’d by blueprints; thus, a soul, grieving by joys, alive but
bawling a whiff—those exospheres, embedded a curse, while at love an anchor;
where never a thorn, that mystic flower, as so symbolic a scar; to plant
essence, as connected hearts, to feel our waking breaths. I see us, sitting by
understanding, as standing to walk away: this dell of rules; this invasive windfall;
by closure our myth. I see tendons, extended from skies, reaching that faraway
space—as cultic presence, so close afar, that jar of pressures; to capture by
witness, this tale of angels, by chi a yogic fire; abreast to fairness, as
attended by ghosts, while aches spoke in cadence; that rhythmic feeling, as low
but enough, to enroot an inner image: those beige nouns, as sitting in-between,
this cosmic rift. I’m apt for reality—at treasures for esteem, while too
affected to say love; that drastic shift, this inch through graves, while at
portraits designing that life; as sold to hunger, while adrift through
features, as to worship a set of drums; that in for outs, that perfect façade,
to settle by wilderness; while saying nothing, this analytic, by chains that
leap of hearts: while haunted dearly, by essence an omen, our flyleaf compiled
of spells; to break it by lance, that sudden welt, to wade through energy; that
torn excursion, those tackles of rain, this task as daunts to souls. I see us,
so pulled afar, to rue our voice, while at aches such tension: our gravel to
wings; our passions to turpentine; our footprints wilted through sands; where
love is creeping, devoid of delusions, predicated upon mysticism; this thing he
claimed, at little for evidence, assigned to defining a certain texture: that
feeling to bones, that spasm to souls, that ache to hearts; as living
vignettes, our palms to petals, our minds to specters; this furious sage, afar
a scream, running through surreality: that lotic dream, that freshet river, our
entwined phantoms; as naked tears, to remember unlikeness, while conditioned by
familiarity; as held by freedoms, our wilderness of declines, pitching prose to
séance eyes—while hoping grayness, this estranged feeling, as so removed from
self: that internet bouquet; that iron pastel; this capture exceeding charades—as
cascading beauty, that invasive absence, our mystic parade; as more a pardon,
that sudden disappearance, as returning during a.m. hours; as songs sing, our
encaged theatre, by essence this inner texture; to pull a current, as so
emphatic, our meanings to memories.
