Nightfall
We
move at pace, leaving our knells, at courage to love our sins—that brisk cry,
as seasoned in fires, nibbling this inner taint; to capture frailty, as
morphing strengths, those thoughts carrying particles; where fathers grieve,
this beautiful death, our daughters becoming fires. I live as us, adrift a
cloud, admiring rebirth: that frantic heart; that lethal language; those nuns
to portals; where art is furry, while furry is death, where both attribute to
life. We came for glory, our horrid story, that white dress—as married to
tragedy, that curse as grieving, while we surge to amend disasters: that terror
as stars; those bars as affection; that legacy as confronting morals; where
love is sultry, seated in denims, a soft necklace beckoning respect; to die
with pressure, afforded one glance, as to compose an inner tome: that golden
cross; that mystic atheist; that figure distorting rules: our societal cuffs,
as cleaving for structure, this wealth as bleeding his brain. It comes to
towers, that watchful terror, while screaming through strong affections: this
effaced soul, at wars to palm flesh, while threshed afar a dream: our pillows
moist; our bodies clammy; our rooms humid with ghosts; as struck a nerve, to
confess his honor, while afforded that feeling: stressing for broken; clutching
for falling; abandoned to conquering immortality; that soft omen, as thrust his
logic, a man by graces a fire; where love leaks, seeping into wilderness, where
coyotes nestle with mystics. It comes by measures, that fiddling through
personality, to push a chess piece: as adored a scar, while afloat a cloud, to
strike by entrance that calm; while at joys a soul, to appease a dungeon,
announcing proudly such voyage: those chandeliers; that outspoken ottoman; that
tint by ambiance; as died a soul, to arise as soul, this mincing of souls.
Day Two
I’m sparse
to speak, as attending funerals, at silent magnitudes; that ivory flesh,
embedded in hells, at smiles to perish; this slant of brains, those distorted
mora(s), affected our haunted souls; that inner dwelling, our earth as
draining, our swan as cringing: indelicate souls; liquid fires; a curse to
afford blessings: that soft music, those mental mountains, our horrid symposium—as
cried vexation, while torn a phoenix, flipping pages frantically: if must to
die, our years to betrayals, our thoughts to tortures; where pagans rise,
afloat a scar, flinging from brains our bars: that gentle kiss; those rolling
eyes; that whetstone as patience; as heard a soul, that deep distress, abased
by mirrors; that inner dream, while screaming at bats, that flicker into twilight.
I’m torn a man, searching his soul that tug-a-war forgiveness; while asking amends,
prior to lights, where truths are hidden: “oh wretched man, to sing of love,
while stealing prides. Oh dejected soul, as crazed as jackals, forfeiting
love”; indeed a curse, at verses to rebirth—a solemn affection: those beige
balloons; that mahogany kettle; our teas by one cube of ice: if fled a serpent,
he’d meet a lion, flipping through desert-storms; while reaching deaths, at
best a ghost, imparting a sacred whisper; where mothers flourish, as depicted
in scriptures, by force a locomotive; to sing of treasures, at paradise a
voice, while flung into salvation. I’ll share a secret, as born through rivers,
adrift a beige star: We strike emotion, to pass a spirit, while managing our
fires; so more to flying, while reaping rewards, at terrors to hate us.
(At
moments we realize this mixture of torments seated at tables offended by
mirrors).
