We
become flawless this centered perfection at memories that facial explosion;
nevertheless, this ache for infallibility as cautious as predators at wars
those gregarious thoughts; as told his soul that welkin abrasion to form by
nature this cold disposition; where deserts are paved with militants, by
terrors a mirror’s rival, chasing to feel but music that dream.
I
sat at panic, a bomb by brains, rebuking but thoughts—while cased in terrors,
that tragic screen, embodied upon stages; at deep affects, changing tempos, our
errors as created—this gulf of souls, introduced to thought-logs, pushing
passed limits; to visit his face, this myth of madness, those yogis as mystics;
while churning life, that cliff a fire, while leaping that piano’s fall: if but
a well, to dig at brains, this failing as supported with destiny; to meet those
eyes, as chiseled a tear, while angered to find truths; this grieving mansion,
those rooms as morbid, our arcs as mourning; for light was boldness, this kiss
of thoughts, while spirits roamed. I sat at magic, fumigated at life, apparent
to souls this deep illusion; as not for humans, but mere perceptions, a bit to
curses by love—as greeting faces, attempting portraits, as spacial as fields of
grain.
Our
lights are bleeding, at tethers our souls, by cleats that trek—those muddy
ponds, that marsh mayfly, that song fused in pirates; to sing her soul, while
covered in ashes, that dot by life our resurrection; where souls tangle, at
angles through webs, by grace that resurrection; to fuel as souls, at
midnight-noon, seeping through a blackdamp: that cultured death, as such to
beauty, to want for flesh our disasters—that wellic soot, while smoking smaze,
that beige guitar—where mother died, a son lived, while crying existence; this
inner feud, alive but cringing, at affects a spell—those seasoned eyes, that
incredible gaze, our years at living.
I
sought out fires, such elegant souls, seeking agape—as present a myth, by stories a legend, our liturgy selling
cries: if but to live, I’ll die a spirit, at sparks this wellic enchant—where
father dances, a gift to lights, while born this maze—effective as falling,
crawling through tents, at caves a newborn furry—in truths, a fib, as fibbing
truths—so exquisite our tithes!
