While
felt amazing, this mental fuse—so far that reality; where petals speak, this
trek of gardens, alive-electric-winds: wheezing by pressures; naked to
wildlife; as vulnerable as newborns: such newness of life; our suspicious
anchors; infused by abstracts: that casual laugh, as imperatives of time, our
windfall sorrows; to glisten by agonies, afar an impression, that mistaken
misery as humility: where jaguars prostrate; such musical dolor; while affected
by subtle that gesture; those wild glens, embedded in brains, at flux to love
so heavenly: our manikin cries, as pantomime sails, this fission of characters;
where love escapes, while escape is precious, as far certain our subliminals:
those tender daydreams, by treasures that heartache, as two join becoming one;
this casual bale, as so nonchalant—gripping by feathers such expectation: that
screaming nib, while etching portraits—our realities engraved upon skyglass.
I
pine softly, at wails with Trixie, seeping into labyrinthine flowers; repeated
as curses, mulct of sanity, a bit too sane for television: this crying life;
that sighing muse; our trombones clashing through fens; at arks to lights,
traveling by cadence, abused by a tender palm: those instrumentals, as seeming
perfected—our imperfect address: while sipping fire; aloof to joys; at tenses
over lakes: those casual storms, as mentioned in articles, this living
according to magazines; as hustled inside, an amulet as statements—our screams
as social beads; to die a halo, this miracle of valleys, as all endure similar
lots: those silver raindrops; that delirious earthquake; that moment in rhymes
as peaceful: our Asian rice; Our Grecian lamb; our inner souls inverted through
trials; to course through passions, permitted to laughter, while investigating
love: those pleasures as suspect; our encounters tugging; as too, those
pictureless vibrations; to sort through confetti, while losing certainties, by
nature holding to long held convictions; to find dissention, as carrying life,
our visions as philosophical fires; where tears are watching, altered by
horizons—that countenance screaming through wrinkles.
Alchemic
waves; our years at gazing; our colorful thoughts—as more to sinning, if but at
registers, alert to casual dissention; where beauty becomes feelings, this
shift is souls, our nectar becoming attributes; to find with love, this
releasing of music, while content with knowing about love; as casual deaths,
embraced for perfection, our rainfalls becoming scientific: to feel at forces,
that vibrant guitar, while at woes this inrush of divinity: that secret notion,
at wars with souls, while cleaving to miracles; where trumpets blast, this
march of millions, while afar a dream: that chaste rhapsody; that violin’s
mother; our father an electric drum—as falling to sickness, those shifting
images, at mercies by forgiven self. It could be life, this trial of
dysfunction, while at tears such turmoil; as thieves enter temples, alive but a
voice, where prophets raid our inner scoundrels: this place in hearts, engulfed
in splendor, at arcs with sights.
