Terrible
transgressions; our furnace to chains; our souls contorted: as lived a life,
that trail of sadness, to carry on at sameness.
We
adore love, that infant music, those tender eyes—that palm to fingers, that red
nose, those smelly toes. We bled
forgiveness, accustomed to winds, fleeing as floating through fears—that fire
to souls, or yellow spiders, or deers too wild to tame: that cultured
greenness; that ivory flesh; that free-flowing mane; to deliver silence, as
sore to lyrics, painted in spirits; that poem lost, to burgundy dreams, such as
powder by nostrils. We adore love, seated in sections, agaze’d by opera; that
violent cadenza; this furious aria; while split for hairs those cryptic tides;
to vest a river, a mind of whales, our genetics carved in petroglyphs: that
loud lyre; that pyre of bones; our associations with kef; as trestles churn, by
sacred angst, our tracks to arts as flowing trains. I ache a swan; I’ve cried a
princess; I’ve joggled grandparents—as sipping vines, or Welch’s Grape, or
Apple cider—becoming drab, while sore to mercies, cursed as breath our
tortures. We adore swans, swatting at dreams, alive our crocodile hearts; as
churned our nights, our sweat to pillows, feuding self that Armageddon—at
struck a nerve, our inverted minds, lunging at promise; to whiff forever, that
castle by clouds, consumed by chaos: at treasured tears, at thirst for Stōk,
fiddling majestic crayons; that creek of fevers, our mirth with soy, racing by
glances.
(I
fell asleep, while lights were flashing, ere a floor model mirror—adrift by
melody, crawling through mayflies, counseling an ostrich; as seen by dreams, or
biblic visions, to kettle over meanings; that deep cache, our eyes grinning, by
an attic hug: such to shower, our draining souls, our faces to Neutrogena—at
towels an image, at graves a rose, at doors an opening—where souls vanish,
refined but hostile, or meditated but cruel; to live such fires, as to churn by
spirits, by will a smile that
struggling person. We’re afforded by
dreams, whistling beauty, by tears those gorgeous eyes: if be it by souls,
reading through classics, at wonders this purpose our screams—as painted our
minds, striving for awards, pushing beyond such silence—as captured, asylum
gazes, glaring at something temporary: that slight by wills, those holding lies, that shampoo so harsh to hairs. I castle by reasons, this pushing of pieces,
a left turn towards agonies: that inner Fire; that flaming opera; that mental
Fahrenheit—while tipping by toe, that ocean of dreams, as bowing one last classic:
that infant symphony, by Johnson & Johnson, those turquoise berets: as
aching hearts, to lose by memory, while souls warrant such catastrophes).
It
straddles conscious, this picture a soul, drifting into portraits: that liver’s
camera, as stippled by pixels, fleeing as flying through meadows: that brook of
shadows, as to ponder by brains that need to lie. It comes to heart, that
perfect image, as eyes stand abysmal: that sudden rush, a picture painted, as
vestibules crumble; but more to hells, by three month runs, while searching for
new victims. I sound harsh, even for bitter, as too pining that getaway: as
roses are cyan; as pools are visions; where souls graft perfections: as trusting such lips, perceived by frontal lobes, assigned
to this feeling of feathers: that light agony; that soothing fear; our aches to
flit—as flying our gravity, so torn a culture, fiddling with guitars; as sung a
soul, by mahogany dressers, falling by knees to wooden floors: as sung to
sorrow, while never our beginnings, adrift a scar!
