At
last, an echo—contorted by visions, consulted by hearts; that pronged violin,
that screaming cello, our driven skins; while torn a curse, at silent winds,
our chimes mental phantoms—that laughing cure, as bore his mind, accustomed to
violent wails; as shadowed a ghost, at purpose a song, this cadent woman while
groaning: that deep softness, fueled by anger, that name betraying its origin;
of course, a sin, by neglected windmills, as sought a quixotic journey: that
beige dream, that gray horizon, our fires stressing abilities—as accordion
monsters, or fluting leviathans, at courage to embrace demonic jeers. We’ve
cried death, amazed with churches, this man by prisons our tortures; as brains
ache, those stems to weeds, while our harvest if thriving; that gravid
drumbeat, at deep affections, while curled in pretzels: that mahogany lute, our
daughter’s piano, our mothers to perish harshly: that wayward child; that
intolerant soul; our rivers dry those dying ducks; to reach by joy, this tiny
pill, as our countenances become liquids; while churned a song, at such
profundity, scraping as killing that silent innocence; this gurney of souls,
while abreast five spirits, as added his soul: those sacred fires, at unison a
storm, where yogis point to mirrors; of course, to communion, that unsung
piccolo, those vibrant soulquakes: to shivers our dice, that purring kitten,
those gleeful puppies; while mother churns, as father writhes, our distinctions
distorted with rhymes: that lambent ache, as sensing such presence, while at
curses to extinguish reflections. We trek a canyon, as fragrance by caves, our
memories jogged by science; to consort with omens, as chilled his brains, a
pentagram as darkness; to see for cultures, our ubiquitous crimes, seasoned
with failing salts; that inner adventure, as chimed a legacy, our purposes a
bit contorted—while whales advance, addicted to shorelines, as stuck to crosses
that endless sensation; at tears, to witness travesty, that breathless symbol;
while organs wail, our arias by mirrors, our cadenzas by liquor; as romanced a
thought, peering at galaxies, our homes that familiar torch; as bleeding
boulders or sky-fire rain, accustomed to mourning—at beauty a grotto, that
snail mocking, by reach that life to incarnate—as flying through dregs, to
pause through fields, plucking a peach in bloom: as neural enchantment; or
sublime heart-spikes; at flux to ensoul a swan; while felt a soul, that
crescent fantast, by war an adversary of time.
Such
as whirlwinds, a starlit at moons, pictured as teal-blue pirates; that song we
wrung, that allusion bleeding, our minds bewitched—as channeled forever, as
privileged our souls, ahead by curses our blindfolds; to maestro an orchestra,
afflux a cauldron, to collapse a nightmare; that jasper rose, that jasmine
diamond, our crises affecting our dispositions; where origin etches, as
reminded of ghettoes, this thing we were pleased to construct: that terrible
lightning, as wrung our fortunes, our threads knitted to something underground:
those dazzling crystals; those impish ghosts; our lore as souls abandoned—where
mothers sung, of sacred silence, at pace a group of believers; to sense for
magic, that inner ability, while tugging for wealth that warrior’s lights.
We’re
bleeding Agnes, that tragic oracle, at potions by airborne waves; while caved
as villains, our rags to filth, our souls to holiness: if chorused our lives,
this cryptic spell, aloof to souls fleeing our songs; as taught adventures,
married to motion, espoused to darkness; that gothic fuel, that tragic art,
that beautiful wedding; as sensing forever, this must to return, while at
breath unconscious of breath; this axis of souls, at balance a comet, thrust
into longevity; as torn to confess, this wretched expectancy, while eclipsed by
something spectacular: that cultic soul; that gravid heart, those waves by
earth as terrestrial mystics.
