Anxious House

What for haunting, that inner song, that shifty volcano; insofar, as terror, as, nonetheless, a confidant: those silent gestures, that series of questions, those nodding cues. I venture eyes, this pagan goddess, as ignored by literature; this lonely measure, at courage a storm, as agreeing with detriments: those harmful charms; that explosive voice; our predicament a taste unstable; that familiar light, as mother’s haven, as resisting rudiments: those textured serpents; that forbidden fruit; our gardens by pastures a porcelain travesty; as upon life, this mystic vase, so cold our shivers of rivers—to telic by faces, this chase of thorns, our amazing horrors. I know a person, fretted by mirrors, staring by hours; as becoming oneness, or softly to perish, while becoming hectic; this wreaking chaos, insomuch, a tear, at tethers, Leviathan; that crooked soul, as born my eyes, to find her teaching subtleties; thereunto, as so persuasive, assuaged by misery; this cordial plight, as soft those ribbons, a dragon by our riverbed. I nibble algae, an inner estuary, a fiasco to souls; our aunts by fate; or woes by gates; our muses by sorrows; to see it beauty, that fantastic grin, as losing abilities; to grow by portraits, this haunted telescope, our gaze about a fracture; to live as diseased, aflame this curse, at relics by temptations; whereto, at death, softly, by resin affected as mere residue—as captured a web, crawling by spiders, nibbling grasshoppers; that place we cried, when sung at fevers, our skin robbing our perceptions—to believe as ghosts, as never imagined, our days at hatred; as, notwithstanding, this missive of breeds, addressing an empty image; that shorn confetti, as mystic a dream, too far depleted at needs for helium. It comes to passion, this chasing of vines, our deserts skiing flutes; to hear our terrors, confined to tutelage, as claiming independent thinkers; so harsh a cry, affected but moving, receiving a just reward; but ours is treachery, at cuts to poison, alive an ache such concentration; to ask for purpose, as living resistance, but favored that inner person. It catapults fever, this fasting of swords, etched by something grander: that fallen angel, this mirrored person, our healing souls.