I’m
running afar, this forest of wolves, that cry our anger; and there’s mother,
shaded in travesties, screaming this mix of words: its sin by smiles, grace
through tortures, that woman watching—as broken softly, singing of returns, at
cringes that sudden insight. I broke a mirror, our faces in shards, as demons
roam our valleys: those forty days; those lightning nights, that legion
pleading for saviors. It cuts harmony, this familiar psych, that cadent
mystic—to want for closure, this mixture of genres, that archaic venture—as
seeking truths, to know arrival, that inner kaleidoscope; where mother binges,
this other person, so gentle that raging wisdom—to interpret scripture, to
picture deaths, at rhythms confusing currents: that sharp shift; that basement
of ghosts; that portrait at tongues. I’m running afar, peering at Tracy, as
imagined through cryptics: that song sung, the Tao shattered, that moment to
muddy lakes—those fevered geese, as wild to fires, that heart at treasures; to
see for faces, while gripping mist, our fingers moist: if brought his leisure,
she brought her morals, our eternity stressing our distance. I heard for sailing,
as to approach islands, at tears that teal blue diamond; as lambent love, that
inner inspection, as realizing this inner collapse—where awful are feelings, as
terrible is flatness, while wretched are miseries—this flipping page, to
realize feelings, as adoring such wretchedness—where sadness is segue, at
terrors our psychologies, an omen to mirrors: that casual dance, as knowing for
deaths, while pursuing that music. I’m running abreast, fingers to coyotes, at
fires this inner ambience: that beige light, that floating swan, that mother at
tears to reverse. It comes with love, as sensing disjunction, where aches
rupture neurons—that flying phoenix, as surging brains, while pigeons peck at
flames. (I heard silence, afraid of normality, at wars to feel different: that
boring life, as forging dreams, while I sit at loneness: this blank lot, where
pains appear, those bodies as floating his eyes. It sings to softness, that
gentle kiss, that vulnerability; as trapped in self or wrapped in us or
tripping through naked tortures. I felt music, this cultic reality, as seeping
into another’s spirit; to imagine our arms, reaching too far, as thrusting into
souls: those aching fingers, that rich beauty, our perspectives clashing at
darkness: as molded cultures, in love with vengeance, seeing but reasons to
test love). I notice wiles, this richer excitement, feeling through tentacles:
that gorgeous glory; that fretting smile; those uncomfortable comforts: if
spoke his screams, as tender a friend, while at wars to love: that cryptic ark;
that distant emptiness, that prayer by way of inner delusions; to extinguish
thoughts, but still with cadence, while realizing tortures: those rare shivers,
as heard his life, staring at sinister beauty; to perish a soul, while at tears
our flesh, to harvest a never ending fusion.
