Fire Logs

I’m a bit aloof; a bit gifted; plus, our screaming passions. It comes by hankering; while shadowed in demons; revered as in-between: our locomotives; our prolific writers; caged by such beauty…to grovel by rites, this hitting and missing, aiming for perfection: that churn of words; those actions as images; our psyches a pool of minerals; but more our percentage, those illusive thoughts, as to witness something mourning. It feels volcanic, while currents are streaming, an instance in time created sorrows: at Thor’s Well, this place in souls, peering at a neckline—as so forbidden, as considered by lights, as beyond man’s possession: this sharing of wits, our Cotton Palace, but a second at a moment. I can’t shake it; this existential; those thoughts of futility: as such a hostage, gazing at naivety, at prayers, his daughter sees—this luxury of channels, that half tilted kettle, as filled with perceptions. I thought for college, to aid us at illness, this philosophical vase: if so to ponder, such electric guidance, insomuch, a world of troubles: our endless inquiries, as Goblin Valley, extended by such rich beauty; as building a monster, those hiking trails, this seated agitation; to find with life, such alienation, as feeling a bit unneeded; but this is art, our secluded rivers, our souls wider than our eyes; to meet a flower, fraught by disdain, at wonders those private thoughts; where souls turn ugly, while sharing affections, at turns, this need for adversaries; as fiddling whale bones, our paleontologists, uprooting Dead Sea Scrolls; that silent valley, that prolific writing, our appeal shifting through mindcaves…with such as fury, insofar, as beauty, a bit too involved; but this is payoff, while needing humans, if but for sanity; at deep remission, if not to include, this prolific growth. We die to something, affected by admiration, while adept enough to critique our legacies: those glass peaches; that island of cats; those priceless silkworms…albeit, allure dances, this incredible fever, a reclusive shies away; as dying in droves, at tears, to live, while living, nonetheless; such allergic paradox, where love is breathing, if moment to seconds: that prolific scar; that enticed wilderness; that ravishing beauty. I saw a lioness, by measures of smoke, while confused such identity: that feeling of hearts; that latchet of souls; those cities of jackets—as floored to features, snapping and falling, but called to adjust; that nice physician, as carrying lives, as mere a figment; where souls are graced, this passing in time, to have met by riddles; that creepy inquisition, as needing to know, while adjusting to rhythms…that fair attraction, at must to perish, while morphing into snowy owls.