While to Have Known Us

I saw powers, aloof attraction, plus, variables. I heard silence, as pictured delusions—such insidious joys. I used us, a man to journeys, while living his contradictions: that inner collision, where ‘ologies texture, wherewith, are cries of injustice: that fractured ceiling; that mahogany kettle; this force as territorial. I wanted claims, these us by jars, our fairest illusions; as life vanishes, but two a country, racing through vineyards; that deep curse, as forced to sin, searching by lights our mirrors. We jetted romance; while skiing disdain; where a kernel erupted; as soon extinguished, that measure of normality, a terse concern his soul: our bleeding status; that newborn child; those seconds to mirrors as frightening…to see abandonment, that self as breathing, accustomed to that new person.  (You sail with ease. I speak as knowing us; this spacial Socrates; that garden by such reflection…as drilling for souls, to abase his nature, communing with spirits…as captured a segment, those dropping hearts, effecting sutures: whereto, as exultation, flailing a songbird, flirting by chi our fret: that voice as music, as seeing so clearly, at woes that mirrored mare).  Ink is dripping; time is at tic-tack-toe; our joust that style of living: those spacial gestures; to see it now; as aiding reflection: as spirited oldness; our fire so cold; as to flicker at mercies that arc-beat…whereby, excelling our dwellings, examining pixels, while weeping at silence that mispronunciation. We danced our tempo, as now to winds, that treasure he misunderstood—as calming music, that inner drive, as knotting air-shifts: that musical hem, afforded actuality, an axe to souls as melic sensation; or knitted wit, while exhausting closure—that bridge to wounds…as taught by prayer, buried so deeply, by angst feeling forsaken’d: as broken fire, that leaping blueness, a pond so rich with essence.  (You die with grace, effaced intentions, as true to your word…that vague charm, as to witness such culture, our sketches upon woodblocks; while treasured kilns—become disturbed—to have believed in probability…that shorn romance, if but to brains, as affixed to principles; herewith, we perish sunlight, as threaded to souls, familiar fully with our whereabouts: that swinging pendulum; that bruised arch; our orpine fixtures…as torn through glass, that carved reflection, to pull it by shadows; hereto, this dove, at tears our currents, to search by you as novas).  It becomes a dream, to have sung such sin, piercing theology; that web of beauty, a forest to a scream, our ruts to flares…as channeled our hearts, at motion through cadence, at communion with souls; while feeling pangs, that fabulous growth, as one intervened.  (I wonder for adventure, that pulling attraction, to sentence by angst that driving force; hereto, pursuing by deaths, that charm by meadows, to live that quixotic jewel: that perfect meter; that raging love; as to woo by saxophone our darkness…where love resists, unto to flames, tugging at torn convictions.  (I’m but a soul, at measures to say little, ablaze’d a cryptic furry).