I’ll
live it a livid soul scolded for cold our monopoly; as soft to music, losing
sanity, as orders condition priests; that inkish wave, as grave a warrior,
those passionate souls; as crazed with fire, this cryptic breed, at sacrifice
those cultic cries; to live forbidden, while effecting sequences, that falling
for crawling at tears to love: that fatal flute, at trekking meadows, enlove by
penmanship: those lucid insights, as brave to harness, that language griping
brains. We die to cranes, that anchor bleeding, while secret our closet
activities: if must to dream, as must to feel, I’ll live secluded with dreams:
if must to rumble, I’ll rapture death, at kisses that grieving heartache—to
pursue sickness, while so to shames, where intoxication overwhelms—that pitted
feeling, our guts destroyed, while upchucking particles; where mother gazes, by
charms a confidant, while admonishing that type of hell. We disappear, at love with actions, afforded
this deep confetti: our parts to rivers; our songs to Buddhists; our
pluralities to Hindus—swerving as seated, that inner owl, our jaguars to
brains; as leering at traffic, that drive by seclusion, to exist as removed
from that person. I’ve died to sing,
this pressure to evolve, feeling a bit stagnant; to stream that reservoir,
those captive gazes, aflame that art where persons perish; as it didn’t live,
while gasping for breath, as buried while pushing royalties: those offshoots,
reversed in hearts, this inversion where eagles bleed. I’ll party alone, those
dungeon eyes, afforded this dream. I’ll inflate a scream, as to chisel a
shiver, at loses where love severs sorrows; that deep affection, as born to
grieve, as grieving in pure ecstasy; for love is gritty, this unheard music,
while attempting to finger that claim. It can’t be gentle, as participants at
war, this longing to control affections: that deep opera; that gothic mirror;
those chilly wands: accustomed to losing; at affinities with winning; at grins
to witness spirits: that electrical shiver; those facial events; that season we
bore imbalance. I’ll float a phoenix, as
to ascend an arc, while covered in mother’s disdain—if but to touch, that outer
mind, as tapped into those exospheres; where love was real, as deep delusion,
attempting to outwit that urging reality.
I’m running through portraits attached to seas an island by another’s
palms; as sung that feeling, to wonder of that feeling, this giving of self
until brains ooze—that infinite cry, that inner echo, to see with pride this
once to live. (Let us fly, while filled
with tears, sitting for soaring at another’s cries: Let us dream, as affecting
ghosts that hidden compartment our treasure box: Let us remember that violin,
that new experience, prior to that rising moon; for this is life, as evolving
creatures, our status’ at war; as nonchalant(s), swinging at parks, leaping by
clumps of grass: that Beijing rice; our Eiffel Tower; that parish by
Notre-Dame; where Alps are rising, that inner rift, as pieces forge into
puzzles. Let us envision, that sweet but sour, as tugging at seas—that deep
affection, as sipping ink, while dipping nibs—while so confused, sensing with
clarity, afforded this chance to fly; for this is love, as never conflicted,
while giving more than it hurts: that blue intension, as writhing emails, to
condition a warm response). We’re found
as souls, a fleet of warriors, by lance to cross by paths: those seven-up
roses; those skylark daisies; that miracle we came into essence; where daughters muse, as singing for beauty, unaware that
souls sacrifice to love: that rising tide; that breathing darkness; those
lights by helium we float. I’ll live it
a livid soul scolded for cold our monopoly—if aches are borne, accustom to
frequencies, ablaze our equality; where soothing our cries, as death our woes,
afflux this feeling by wings.
