If
to perish, our parish of madness, encased in butterflies—our souls to wings, failing
into grayness, afraid of blacks and whites—that inner pressure, to know us as
jokers, our aces mingled with questions: at felt dejection, at furious words,
to relocate our heavens; this thing with minds, as adjusted subtly, that outer
transformation; where daughters trickle, as melting into crevices, a fist full
of night-owls: about our brains, and alabaster eyes, and confetti
tears—dripping into magic, that deep devotion, to wonder of actresses—that
fatal star, those mutiny thoughts, that action as so pure—as predicated
laughter, something false arising glory, at points, an ultimate climax—to have
that feeling, those Arcadian leaves, our masses to romance a travesty. It comes
this way, our crystallized aphorisms, while baptized in psychologies: that gray
vacuum; that silent question; that disappearance into feelings of rightness: if
but a scream, this faint futility, digging through dirty laundry; as mother is
trauma, while father’s forgiveness, our minds made of gypsum or more a legacy,
this pain of senses, that agony of losses—crossing through cadenzas, at tears
with armoires—two weeks with passions: those naïve petals; so bold with
fiction; to crawl his mind with mere a gesture: that deep mimicry; too wise for
forgeries; while too immune for feelings—this challenging claim, as insinuating
disease, where normal is up for debate—as double agonies, this bathing of
waters, that basin of foot odor—as humble souls, that furious temper, as
adverse to theories: this place in souls; while gifted a curse; affixed to this
particular cadence—to charm with ease, that fugue of existence, that bass to
echo at lower regions: if died a soul, to morph as gods, about to frictions as
Zeus: that deep deception; this feeling of healing; while altered at turns;—that
triple loss, at earth such winnings; to appropriate songs;—while running
through voices, this gong of children, so adept through cartoons: as soaring
sky-gardens, alert a faulty wit, pacing through myriads of faces; that terrible
hex, as flexed his mind, siding with truths—that elusive word, depended upon
consensus, as representing a selective few; thus, margins as grieving, pigeons
for company, and squirrels as rabid; to witness ruptures, infused with madness,
as calmed a flower to palms.
