Finding Shadows

At churns we live, at worst for sickness, our ships structured in bottles: that faraway psych that structured psychologist those overseers by dreams. We imagine normal, as it couldn’t be us, as one a bit emotional; that analytic as physiology turning for churning a pigeon near ponds. I’m seeing diamonds, afforded this truth, a recipient of yogic eyes: reaching by grandma; at wars with mother; becoming a tad too consistent: those tulip cries, as painted by amateurs, while never such intensity: that cultured witchcraft, arising by rituals, embedded in scripture; at once, a villain, our pagan slants, as commandeering priests—that lavish figure, as framed perfection, to share with a sacred soul; that crashing faith, while losing self, affected so deep his brains; that screaming confusion, as morbid delusion, to witness faith walk away. I love it as growing rowing into infinity afoul with abrasions—that casual heartache, as in deep remembrance, those selfish highlights: those chandeliers, dangling beneath countenance, while palming a falling ceiling; to crash by seas, our effects wailing, our conditions growling fens: that jinn of hearts, that new found solace, those ways cast with Jonah. I’m courting whales as singing blues afforded one last ballad—to chance with souls, our melancholia, where affection is surrendered to dolphins: this unsung person, as singing her glory, while remaining secluded: that inner symbol by logic a lotus to find with graves this rapturous affinity; that mahogany sonnet by execution a tad too childish—while peering at Terrance, to evolve by Traci, as one infatuated with literature—as Patricia cries, threaded as woman, fleeing for flitting into memoirs; those sighted drillings, churning through Natasha, at tender thoughts those humans; as no greater honor, afforded one last death, folded within canine eyes. I’ve crashed often, a professional at dying, while soaring heights known to St. Paul: that cryptic churn, accorded an inner diary, at woes forbidden dreams—as screaming at mirrors abandoned to self where mother speaks as sages: that flippant style, as delivering messages at songs chugging Malt Liquor. I grip to silence, effected with sensory, at depth this passerby: that soft music, as seeing contagions, while fiddling with this heirloom—our family box, those African dolls, plus, a series of clippings; as love ponders, seated at wisdom, adrift this melancholic koan; where it could be this thing of souls while captured a mere drifter: that casual thump, as meaning more, where an overthrow haunts our engrams. It happens according to passions as one becomes affronted that two are sharing infinity: this obvious curse, as forced our palms, while tugging insanely. I’ll die this verse, at love with cadenzas, skipping for skiing into oblivion. I must advise that newly dreamt that courage is required to love; as accordions rumble, while pianos wail, that piccolo resounding through atmosphere: that chard fire that bending breath our earth to deaths as resurrection; to feel by hearts, this casual spark, while illusions seep into promise: that rabid temptation, by chance so lonely, by arts a man with dreams: that cultic love, at needs to study, this passion to rejuvenate: if but a wound, I’ll suture such visions, at peace with what has come: that outer pantomime; that soot and smaze; that wooden child becoming spirit; at courage to grind, as never his soul, drifting through memories; as told his story, while observing fingers, where tears swelled as visions blurred. I know for swans wanting tenderness that fathers give: those tiled ideals; that phantasmagoria; that pendulum defining affections; while becoming foreign to that breathing mirror that tendency to deface that perfect image. We die this way; at tears this way; occasioned to flute through breezes that way: if but to live, as no one pushes, we exist mediocrities; so presuming deaths, as affected with contagions, we sing in solemn sickness.