We
move of spirits, such delicate savagery, scrambled afar: that angular wrist;
that nimbus grin; those tides wailing serpents; as lived by voice, such
spiritual horderves, our sky-hearts grieving: those severed cries, as torn that
man, but a soul threshed in cold waters; that faint alliance, as painting
clouds, aware by sub-elements: that awestruck shame; those pebbles to tires;
that bewitching intimacy: if but to live, by inward waves, our minds drilling
at walls: a cloister of grains, amazed by justice, treading graves our cultic
sins; that terrible midnight; those flushing volts; that travesty as magic: as
spinning webs, by intuition, to find by faith a miracle. We tired of love, for love, our parallels by
haunted mansions; to glare with venom, destroyed by wisdom, chasing blue wings:
our horrid beauties; that traffic by brains; those verses by mystic fire; to
again by purpose, our confetti to winds, as particles form devastations. (We cherish but seconds, trekking a live
current, affected by arcs such motion: those pouty eyes, filled by charms, at
terrors such kind affection; to utter remorse, so often for wailing, by far a
stranger’s mirror). It comes by madness,
that cagey currency, at passions to outlive feelings: that silken gown; those
teal-beige feathers; those endless conventions: while so ascetic, that tragic
pathos, alive a subtle tear; as casual friction, reminiscent of stars, amazed
by sheer resistance: that red moon; that mahogany sky; that thunder-volt; to
live by mirrors, while deceptive those mirrors, peering into crowds for
feedback: that deep intrusion; infused by seconds; chiming as dear
friends. We forge islands, enamored by
visions, if but our contagion: that torrid love; that sultry dress; that
luminous neckline—to venture coldly, awakened by warmth that pull for tugs an
inner armoire; as waters fall, traveling up mountains, that glow to glisten but
a glimpse: those days for mercy, while cursed by storms, as alive through
controversies: that jasmine soul, as a tremulous voice, aching for crying our
arcs: if but to live, accustomed to love, hanging by twilight such shifts.
