This
space, so allergenic, so at wars with self; to flee to mirrors, or grind to
music, our haste filled with ghosts; our pleasures falling, by webs our
weeping, fraught by nothingness; to
harness a feeling, while dependent on life, this vessel by aches our
countryside: our existential, that glisten at darkness, our echoes seated at
vestibules—to arrive as souls, imbued by fury, at measures that touching of
eyes; wherewith, estranged, that resistant image, those blurry faces. I think about
swans, such furious vigor, a terror-dome of appetites: that slight jealousy;
those hawks amid waves; that curious insensitivity; while effused by mother,
such pouring emotions—a decade finding self—as social location, or physiognomy,
that psyche of pigeons—at flapping cadence, our eyes with memories, our souls
threaded in scarlet; to fly at random, that deep experience, at one that cosmic
spirit—as afflicted pieces, that accumulation, to be at treasures those years;
whereto, are ghosts, that childhood ether, as sensed a bit unfelt; by which,
are scars, as sung a lake, to arrive feeding egotisms: our outer parade, at
wars those inner feelings, as announced by condition.
I think about love, as concrete actions, or abstract words—those fevered
footlights, by ocean shores—that midnight phoenix…as felt a dream, by cherished
emotions, flushed by experience; as vetted feelings, that inner compass, to
admeasure sensations; those deep psychologies, while reaching iron, while
smelting philosophies: that casual grin; that influx in times; our fragments
fraught by unrest; to scratch by skies, this element of peace, while afforded
pure realization: this day affair, as rooted application, to arise a mystic
jewel. We know methods, while embedded in souls, as participants of warfare:
that long tress; those inner symbols; they measure this constructed life—where
souls flourish, accustomed to shifts, adjusting a lithic mentality; by arts,
that flux, as fluid with time, our willows bending; to imagine flux, as winding
through spheres, with such rapid velocity. I’m low but moving—at wars with nothingness, while at pleasures that
glorious cadence: that manifesto, that
dissertation, that inner newness—at wails to adjust, this second in history, at
preparations for new credence: those pearl hymns; that mental liturgy; this
feeling coming into being; as one by
harshness, at sudden warmth those shivers, at arcs our infrequent souls.
