By
clumps of grass, by examination, those hamsters by interior; while pitted a
soul, seeping into mischief, by manners a monster; as adorned in fire, that
engine of souls, while disenchanted with language; to reason by madness, this inward
cigar, this feeling primarily self—engrained in engrams, this pagan soul, at
membrance but living literature—as perfect philosophy, this tragedy of omens,
this captive majesty—to stumble by angst, upon perfect a fixture, our hearts so
simultaneous—by earth a cage, by heaven such freedom, by some angel of
rumination: surpassing charms; falling by travesty; while beauty proffers
danger: that velvet cloak, as lightning but a dream, as befuddled by
intentional allure: by pure seduction, at something unwanted, those insecure
cries. We perfect pain, so early as self, during those brave hours: bewildered
such death; ecstatic at responses; as resilience shatters attraction; by life
our fledgling, this flapping of storms, at membrance such haunting abandonment:
such concentration, informed by intuition, this portal sipping illusions—as
transported, by sudden keenness, reaching abrupt conclusions; to miss
resistance, as kissed such resilience, by glance a permanent schism: to garner
palaver, while at heart’s vexation, where neither afforded such love; that ten
year war, to have met a jewel, but too evolved our sentiments. By sad thorns,
or maddening briers, this projected tumbleweed—wrapped in oaken tenets, a pair
of fools, laying claims to reality: if but authentic, this peril of thoughts,
if tiles but figments—as lost for innocence, accused of dying, while said
accusers wrestle such turmoil: while flaming at points, our loss of souls,
those persons with few demands; at treasures so low, accustomed to running, this
pagan by arts grooming dreads—as frightened by nothingness, as averted by deliberateness, this frightening
reality; as born for love, while adorned by love, as choosing our pressures to
love; as motion through time, this permanent feeling, while it dies in
dynamics—this thing as motif, by
resounding befuddlement, this man screaming rebukes—as fleeing this soul, so
close his scars, as afforded one last illusion—at arts for flowers, that mental
desert, as charged one volt: that retrieval of particles, as retreating through
meadows, while fire was sudden a message. By
blue moons, or savage lyrics, as captured by cocoons—this inner magnet, by
thoughts a brain, while vicious an entity; or more to pleasures, while infusing
souls, some type of channeled science—that metaphysic, as crying our worth,
while private such ruins; to kiss by arts, this thing of majesty, where arms
are want to experience; as going deeper, at wants for more, where days are
gratuity—that grace of minds, that white noise, our colors chasing winds; as
wanting nothing, aside for inclinations, if but it left: this mission of
brains, confused by intentions, to do as priests while to label it spirit: that
conflicting image, by inner mechanisms, while to flog inclinations.
