We
grow coldness, affected by gems, as such was darkness; that crispy kiss, those
trails by warmth, that conditioned grimace; to witness seagulls, afloat with
crows, our eagles as third eyes—to cry this journey, to sparkle with cadence,
aloft a cryptic cadenza; to lose turquoise, exchanged for beige, such as gray
matter: as moved with haste; too burgundy to see; by cages that capture. We
maze this life, that inner existential, ashamed when murky—that universal, as
fatigue that light, asearch symmetrical symphonies—to garnish our woes, at ink
with vengeance, by graces our young swans—that feral feeling, that arc by
lines, to trek a staircase—where vultures dwell, to unsettle souls, that oil to
flip by tongues; that shapeless agony, that trickle by artifice, this tenfold
war—as steep for currents, alive but wretched, or more those false imageries—to
sail a song, peering at love, abashed by that feeling—as inner binoculars, or
outer whetstones, our neurons as pantomimes. We broke winter, alive by virtue,
as to wrestle receptors: that friend lost; this war to pelicans; our minds by
trunks; as cold to memory, that chase for affection, to give more to a
stranger; as souls flourish, this vestige of passions, alive by seconds that
web—where love evolves, to have spoken softly, by will to invoke ghosts. We challenge this way, indebted to promises,
addressed by a hosts of bad habits; to muse upon lights, suffused with madness,
as becoming that type of person. We adore a swan, our epidemic, flitting for
soaring through plush deserts; to pause our minds, this dance by koans, at
studies that lassitude of existence: that lethargic feeling; that sudden
breakthrough; our puzzles becoming so vivid—as dying by breath, to return with
vengeance, studying molecules: those infinite souls, at music our arts, by
rapture our influences. Let us dig, this
psychoactive math, as fingers infuse our diaries: this myth by lives; our
stories by graves; our tender heartbeats—as racing to battles that elevated
mood, this thing of introspection—as born for silence, as opposed to vocals,
this thin line conditioned through growths—to know as prophecy, that spoken
gentleness, flickering through wilderness cries; to have loved illusions, while
tiptoeing delusions, our grandparents wiggling fingers—as learned so early,
while chasing red moons, to forge passions while knitting: that deep organ;
those melodic voices; that feeling by chills a tear: that inner governor; while
trained by life; our cries aloft ears so far that distance; as this is love,
that inverted agony, as fused by anger—to see for glory, that intervention,
while tyrants hold jurisdiction; but souls feast, forging disciplines,
manipulating atmospheres: this space of joys, as heeding to boundaries, our
palms to water pots—or more a basin, that solemn activity, to have that
place—where souls vanish, as born again, peering at concerns our figs: that
deep resistance, to transform chi, by countenance that Christlike adventure; to
crave life, while demanding essence, that inner fire.
