Its
soft by gentility; those wide-eyes, tiled in sky-dreams: our casual passions,
fixed in flux, as ever an allusion; that beaming aunty; that tragic cousin; our
grandparents fusing a legacy: that sociologist, too cold for butter,
experiencing at measures our souls: observant distance; as born to fires; that
wrestle we live: so pure to cadence; this eclectic stream; as shorn a bit too
holy: that man that lives, catered by demons, too far by scriptures. I’ve loved
a life; I’ve lost a fig; I’ve supplied reeds—if merely by deaths, this prime
example, reading through Jude: those furious claims, to wrestle Satan, as
thrust into condemnation; that burgundy woman; so precious a mistake; while
ventured as a soul to coldness. It comes by anger, those jetted words, as to
survive their illusions: that beige scream, those mouths by mouths, that
daughter too young—that distant sight, as fueled a dream, where mystics inflame
a universe. I crawled havens, as never a haven, this demonic vision: I’ve raced
through traffic, as thought to survive, while ruining that brimming future; to
fever a legend, steeped by ingestion, at love to escape reality; as seething
beauty, while sensing pain, as wanting those shared battle-zones; this false
inclination, as stationed in woes, while forgetting that tragic legacy: if but
to chance, that hectic encounter, where I fail to admeasure circumstances—this
ache we live, those embedded agonies, our itching ears. I read proverbs, to
soar through Peter, to land in Thessalonians: I died to foolishness, aching by
gravity, to thug it out by deaths; this feral chase, to gnaw upon iron, as
centered in academies—this legend mind, this theologian—such empty terrors; as
telic devices, charmed by philosophies, again, this empty soul; to build by
blocks, this faulty fortress, escaping scholars; that cagey heart; that vapid
agony; that meaning in loving while deluded. It comes with passion, this chase for
treasures, to compose as one maddened by reason;
as not to ignore, those pleated phrases, as steep a mother’s psychology;
while given more, as receiving more, to confess that beautiful life—as tragic
to hearts, even father’s grit, racing through city terrors; whereto, hated by
thoughts, this inner infusion, far more detrimental than actual reality—that
senseless love, as sense it is, while still it breathes: this deep desire, to
ask that question, where minds go blank; but what is pash, as built in bricks,
that exclusion of pash! We cherish that way, void of reasoning, because our souls picture their soulprints: that lavish
tale, fueled by feelings, while we ignore those legends: that gray suture, that
mahogany blood, our veins that bluish-green: if sought her life, this sheer
catastrophe, where mother wiggles in agony. We’ve died that light, building
upon huts, exhausted by sheer efforts; where sisters grieve, while brothers
morn, by arts this uncle’s wit. I must to shift, peering at fires, this pyre
our heart-pressures—this lyre of antiquity, this soothing of demons, this flute
as riddled our affections; that plush plum, by wiles an apricot, as to ruin a
plaid’d skirt; wherewith, this deep laughter, a billion dollar smile, this fury
by rage an ache: if sought her life, this glorious beauty, affected by gestures
abroad; to stress through shame, as to admire life, where pillows are fraught
by contradictions. It comes with time, this feeling of truths, while peaking in-by-outs—that
rich adjustment, to welcome love, while rooted in science; indeed, a vehicle,
stripped by congestion, thrust into memories.
