Kettles Are Leaping But Angst To Reach

Such treacherous joys, our talkative sins, at pyramids by wombs; fraught by lights, or lights as fraught, by chaos insidious screams; while terror builds, our trembles for aches, at rounds to prevent treason—that captive prison, allergic to decency, a bit by treasures, immortal; to die as agony, that treacherous voice, held hostage by greed: if cried an arc, that arc to cry, we flourish that incredible death: our pegs removed; our fluids in buckets; our nights to treachery: our trees poisoned; our tarantellas mourning; that vandal at excellence, destroyed—as purposed enchants, those siren eyes, this urgent voltage, sensations; to lather in oils, such weeping ash, by nightcap a fortress; as dreamed a demon, imbuing wings, as sung a victim…our inner mercies, that illness by crawling, at noon a tease that ice-pick; this hybrid legacy, afforded a token, by traits this mirror, singing: our shredded souls, at misery with love, an ear but a seashell our callings…that damaged silence; our tarred dreams; this wretched rocket our moon…as terrible violence, asleep at downfalls, awake to tyranny—that mirror’s image, as fueling our names—ashamed to look backwards…while skies are tainted, our trance dejected, at peace such humiliating joys: that living room sink, as sunk his life, while forbidden at best a dream…that sagic air, as dreamt a minx, as courting rare perfection: to give a wishing well; to renege by silence; where enchantments were fleeting; that web by freedoms, at peace with souls, at engines that angered reflection—as reflexive sadness, by atonement a felony, while controlled internally: that held position, as sudden with meaning, while our drapes prevent beige lights…that casual pursuit, as typed out of existence, where misery enjoys its company; or captive joys, to brainstorm a fortune, that fire-blast as discarding portions: that runaway silence; that feeling by persons; those abstract conclusions; where intrusion reigns, at fury to read it, this love by caves: that treacherous island; that caption in tint; our godly consultations…as grieving by wounds, or dying a phallic spin, addicted to such fair features: those months by sin, as prior to deaths, before such newness…while revved a villain, at tears to gainsay, unsure of classifications; to have this journey, as departed dearly, our eyes about spires: that bottom rung, to need beliefs, while afforded those bluebirds: if treasured our souls, to seek by justice, at measures out Jiu-Jitsu—that gentle art, furious cadence, at screams as more than strangers.       

I see fire, this thicket of weeping, as sinning that weekly motif: if such to die, our wicked splendor, accustomed to darkness; our mystique memoir, your pearly brain, our angst bottled to seas; insofar as metals, our bleeding irons, made privy to marbles…accused of savagery, a pair of fantasts, ensouled by decades: our phantom status; our symbolic chains; this cultic fire: if but to live, as feared detachment, peeking for grinning those subtle currents; as ours was cadence, that cryptic explosion, our nectar that taste of oblivion; to wander this journey, this opus treasure, that tinge by colors our livings…as so concerned, while to harvest wrongness, as mentioned a gesture seeking rightness…that inner cathedral; our spellbound influx; that reason giving life to schisms. It was never gentle, as infused disdain, while admiration sought its music: that surreal feeling, so sacral a dream, while arriving at similar fires: that inner tremble; that deep upsurge; that boundless nightsong—as evincing a series, this inner conduct, while sipping one to get there.