But Love Is So Treacherous

We become important, at measures by levels, while one is clutching to atmosphere…that cordial goodbye, as if jails were sewn, this sentence by life: that gorgeous woman, at tears secluded, or more that unbelievable balance…to ski uphill, at meadows by ghosts, to want that fatal touch: that mourning by seasons, as filled with texture, by one to derive essence by mere thoughts; for this is love, to want for never embrace, at which, becomes serious confliction: that feral woman, so composed a dream, screaming for falling while standing at steps…to love by porticos, that essence reaching, while so withdrawn it conquers a king: our mystic savanna; our desert, “I likes,” as one conquered by maintaining freedoms. It comes to passions, as never heard her name, while one has plural visions: our weeping brooks, by gelid warmness, that absent perform—but a scent afar, that inner actor, while, nevertheless, that chaste misfit: if but to lie, this feeling sprouting wings, as becoming his every fantasy: that booklet of prose; such as dizzy salt; while to whisper, “I’m an artist”—embedded in joys, as climbing through filters, to attract compassion for but a myth: that terrible sin, as gin to brains, so bashful that monster of woes. I died to see it, this lavish beauty, while too withdrawn to cater to love: that fabulous cry, as steeped in music, our war becoming saintly presence; where love would perish, as replaced with contempt, for one ignored a signal: those shifty cries, abreast a vehicle, our breathless disasters. We’re countless souls, by endless desires, to see her for the first time. It has effects, this affective rain, a napkin soaking a bit too much—while becoming flimsy, as tearing at junctures, to realize, “It would love to have her”; that chapel bell; those cryptic cells; a fleet of words flooding our quarters; where dungeons cry, to have that moment, where such is easily rechanneled; so more to dancing, to maintain love, while exhausted by repetition: that scholar’s journal; her rabid eyes; that tropic by cadence this shifty chance—where rebels battle, as infused with armor, at cries to have reached our portal. It could be music, as musing that peculiar moment, while rumors would fever our agenda: that sacral love; as religious love; or more those secular animals; to know for pressure, as enchanted a sculpture, where love held for life that dying moment. I’m want to knead us, if but to bake us, flitting through christic epiphanies: that cagey beauty; those trenchant passions; our memories flooding into flames…where majesty stood, that first by entrance, to realize, Hell Hath No Fury!  (I’m courting visions, this spectacular image, scudding by practice to remain in silence. It comes by pressure, this lure of magnets, by whimsy to select a furious muse: that mystic fountain, to cascade a dream, as such to remain inactive; so more to whimsy, by chance an actress, where one is removed from playwrights: that delphic song; that inner millpond; our women watching as thrown through wonders; to wander pianos, as soft that rush, our faucets screaming by welkin glance…as should be gentle, that fiesta of feelings, our oak trees leaking in tongues; as pure for love, that romantic skit, at terrors by Shakespeare).