In Deaths We Shift through Portals

There’s a haze, at beige rivers, our ankhs to quicksand. There’s a feeling, by nature to love, to want by distance; to imagine gestures, such make-believe, at tears to court reality: a poet’s nightmare; a psych’s dream; our cadence standing in ruins: that tempestuous ocean; riding by rafts; accustomed to something indelicate: those millions on life; those trillions on chaos; this need by predicament: as dying by hopes; or fevered by seconds; our studies resisting existence. It came by bliss, as churning through miseries, to have sung something detrimental—to call it communal, this want for devastation, while by chase to find participants—as living secrets, to turn with time, infested by shadows: that inner reservoir; that pictureless ideal; that terrific breakfast—where souls perish, as coming to lights, while mangled that portrait a pretzel: to have that chase; to win that heart; at silence that terrible feeling—where souls flourish, insync with trespasses, mangled in menacing blissfulness.  There’s dark shadows; a sky-dream; a room filled with delegates.  There’s screaming; this shift through portals; this terrific realness—to want by essence, as not by person, while two come as packaged; this turn of souls, alarmed by injustice, a soul to its wants—as deep immortals, held hostage by feelings, to know by ventures such powers: that horrible passion; that inner caricature; those eyes by circumvention—to see us dance, as pure a vessel, this two by layers as one invention—to soar at treasures, mizzling into souls, where neither trickles passed tragedies: that wonderful arc; those loyal eyes; that feeling outwitting comforts; to sing by fires, this log of fools, our minds as flossy windmills.  It comes with thoughts; that furious chasm; our waves scrambled by humanness; to side as holy, informed of paradox, kicking a spoiled apple—that lightning flickers, aside more injustice, to know we perish easily: as pensive souls; that dread of wanting; flushed with fatigue.