Infuse The Child

I reflex often, while reading materials, or chaptered in emotions; those terrific feelings, prone to highs, a bit melancholic; to know for gothic, that inner resonance, that poke by dots our darkness—where life is us, this amazing electricity, that challenged Ghost—to speak it rarely, that cryptic atheist, a positivist at heart—whereto, that fatal dispute, tendered by cruelties, that rug by assertiveness—as kissed by mercy, to feud as spirits, at tears over similar deities. I remind arts, this furious interior, perusing Theresa(s)—that infant vibe, as becoming adolescence, while to morph into adulthood: that hawkish mother, that father’s waves, our grannies baking lemon drops. It’s casual a churn, peering at parent-eyes, a bit envious of love—that cagey softness, as born of dying, while teenagers rant to ravens: this inner mystic, that tragic tempo, that terrible gentility—as captured a soul, soaring by moons, afflicted by kindness—that deep control, as called our essence, a child to study his mother: as horrific beauty; or sinful blessings; while caged by something gorgeous. We love by arcs, our rivers by clouds, agaze by layers: that cultic pyramid, as spaced through skies, where one in intimate with ether—as tragic a soul, pruning shrubberies, holding so much to gain: that tiring friction, as morning to promises, while sipping ginseng—that fabulous tea, our fabulous hearts, that fabulous music;—to surely jest, while pitted a drum, as witnessed this mindset. I read a tragedy—this captive core-print, embedded in sky-furry—as one to perish, our similar lives, our eyes swelling with acid—that acidic misery, ingested to howl, a balcony of false moments—as loving mother, this childlike genius, afraid of fate: that beautiful damsel; that gorgeous prince; as beating by submissions. I reflex this trauma—those iron impressions, at years to scold this person: our terrific souls; that prayer by motion; where one is for God another is for energy! I’m adrift to both, that personal persona, at gears to fathom divinity: that ravishing splendor; that metaphysic; to picture God as pragmatic. I dance surely, a fine trail, pitching rocks at railroad tracks: that delicate train, armored by iron, but highly explosive: that familiar light, gazing by neighbors, those tragic eyes; where love is toiled, this soil of travesties, while two has loved for nine decades—this study of souls, rooted in foundations, as fires afloat a beige sun. I reflex a memoir, this reflexive soul, a circuit by effusions—as held her heart, as misunderstood, yearning for power; to have such richness, this hell by measures, that emphatic responsibility—as one with morals, this delicate but static line, crawling into sky-mirrors—while lived a soul, at address for souls, a bit weary that element in souls—to court for winds, this marksman-woman, a mandolin to spirits—to drive forever, this crucible of fools, affected by a slight gesture: that brilliant mind; that aching brain; as sensitive to particles. We die this way, a legend of scholars—by terrible sufferings—to soar through hellish pixels, fueled by dreams, perfecting our exteriors—this reflexive scar, as privy to skylines, as more to amore this skyward torch; where arts are gray, even impressionistic, ravished by haunted attics: that deep mystique, those lavish pains, our psyches wrestling about wombs—that place of darkness, imbued-mother’s light, to exit by silence—as not a whimper, for calmness is gravity, as appears this reincarnated gem: to soon perish, peering at parents, born to something tragic—that mental peephole, that sheer embarrassment, that nightlong excursion—to brave our terrors, this acme of pains, while reigned our travesties. I reflex on life, as merely a crib, so gentle those cocaine eyes—as inner axioms, to mother’s wit, to imbue a child by fireballs.