It’s
hard to explain; that concave river, that mirror as séance: as living in
clumps, that violent sensation, those violet visions—as abused his mind, so
young to dopamine, so wise but dumb: at sullen junctures, that deep attraction,
while becoming a person’s miracles; as cherished wrongness, by cuffs a villain,
as so sung his dreams: as casual misfits; or intense aberrations; to show by
actions our miseries; by love as nuance, afforded three currents—so much is
dying; as born to virtues, accursed as humans, while singing of fleeting joys:
that rabid sensation; that vivacious temple; our instruments by dances an arc;
that furious legacy, while tender our skies, that abysmal parachute: as joy
sprouts; our dungeons filtered; while becoming that centerpiece—those captive
seams, as streams infinities, our roots speaking by winds—to cry our nights,
that inner seesaw, by mortar so indelible. So life as séances—that trenchant
renaissance, our caves as meadows as but our tunics—if grace is gentle, that
terrible beauty, as reaching by measures our secrets: that bold forgiveness,
while showing our tigers, to gesture by arcs of violence—as tragic lagoons, afforded
three smiles, by aches tugging at lonely souls—where love boils, our kettles
aflame—that person an existential monster. We fraught fear, by mere thoughts, at points,
sitting in sheer blankness: to feel skylarks; or become eagles; by instincts to
unravel koans—that torn delight, our eyes to water, as salt trickles our lips;
where mother shadows, that vibrant catastrophe, at echoes that mocking
mirror—to hear laughs, floored by spears, a lance as a poet. We scream silence
that poker by aces, our faces contorted as pantomimes—that wretched treasure,
as confused injustice, while reaching by inversion to open souls—where father
appears, pouring cognac, while speaking riddles: that earned frustration, as to
fathom segments, while running amuck through deserts: that gorgeous calamity;
that feral tameness; those women his dreams—surrounded by angels, afloat a
beige cloth, as witnessed a crimson streak: those framed agonies; that picture
of screams; this chase as existence by sorrows: if captured our nights, to live
that joy, boredom to madness to chaotic humans; as deep by paradox, this living
as sameness, notwithstanding, sentiments. It courses by angst, as favored a
vessel, charged by life as electrocution; that gravid séance, by souls a
person, fevered through mystery—as hailing science, this craft by knowledge, to
infuse one that cliff: our burgundy souls, swift to patience, as sensing its
powers: that toxic art, as more a dream, while intoxicated by wisdom: that
unboxed feeling; that un-wet moisture; those petals by freezers collecting
symbols: if but to love, this frantic toil, our fingers at Tai Chi; as wolves
watch, that unfamiliar compassion, wrestling an inner self—while sensing
deepness, to nigh a soul, while carried a thousand dimensions; where grandma
cries, as sensing such dangers, to intervene trekking omega; that trenchant music; that zombie glare; as unsung
consciousness; whereto, our dances, as flung by confessions, our exotic dirges;
to flee by flights,, running in circles, as returning to our alpha; but ever wise, as disguised our
souls, by mirrors those unsteady eyes; while people suffer, to forsake a cure,
rich by mirth our tyrannies: that aching umbrella; that Taekwondo; that lust
for healing; as courted a dream, this fabulous rose, to shock his heart; that
captured vessel, at torments to oblige, while inverted as secrets: that tragic
chorus, as sung to glory, by discretion such feats. It couldn’t be life, as
adrift that arc, peering at a city of psychs: those intrusive wings; as gleaned
our lives; where sin by sun is blessing: that floating violin; to shed old
beds; while confessors take motion—as clever mystics, or morbid gems, whereat,
a sight of sighs by fires; our tears as jewels, flickers through dynasties, as
arts by vices our shamans: those cultured séances; those twilight moments; that
sentence to aid through miseries; as more a song, blessed through antiquities,
our raven arcs.
