By Volta to Acknowledge a Priceless Complaint

It’s gotten ridiculous, those isolated feelings, supported without cushions. It’s become lethal, those boarded edges, this margin of holiness: our soul-hearts, enflamed by sky-pillars, searching for something that relieves; or more that love, for something wretched, if but to feel—rhapsodic angst, at flares with demons, aloft an inner memoir: this antsy curse, as given to Agnes, while becoming our spirits: such reverie, or abstract genius, while writhing in sutures; for wounds bleed, as speaking of permanence, while brains admonish such feelings: that walk with silence; that jogging sprint; that favor we never utter: by horizon, such steepness, aflame a casual perusal—where visions appear, a storehouse of faces, while abed chanting softly: this instrumental, as detrimental, to have altered consciousness: by losing lights, at attracted lights, this series of transformations. It’s become irksome, with so much to lose, a soul asking for sacrifices; as tones create attitudes, while trestles speak of stillness, where love becomes so fabricated: to die for passions, as misunderstood, while rapt’d in understanding: that inner umbrella; that umbra of functions; the tyranny of such sacrifice: to have supported nakedness, this enamored symbol, a touch devastated with sharing forbidden victuals; but life is soaring, this tremendous legacy, wandering the slip of grasps: as unbolted dearly, cheering for warriors, while abandoning warriors: that milk and honey; this infamous perusal; our brains becoming cosmic: if sounded an arc, to come to terms, I must admit, correctness: this sore admission, while to divest partly, as sung a cadent heroine: our tamed fervor, as untamed inwards, this music while swans are resting. I venture cries, as tugging portraits, insomuch, that eclectic trumpet—as much a fleece, shimmied at seconds, our burnished vows: as thinking abruptly, to shift through feelings, while affected by mind-particles: that inner cleaving, as resistance wanes, our thoughts creating memories; as thinking of thoughts, that space of wars, while excavating data-banks. It comes to horrors, that checkered overcast, that combative concave; thereunto, are terrifying passions, while assuming chivalry, as slipping into forgetting such folly: this cursed blessing; that widening of eyes; this Bastille of feelings; therefore, a miracle, or much to sickness, attempting to harness such holiness. I wanted forever, too balance at communion, while restricted from seeing infinity; this melancholic cliff, as confused purely, at complaints those sordid stars.  I can’t defeat, this passion of brains, a bit abused by poetry: our gripping to nothing, while gripping to everything, as realizing this dreaded fear: our music is fading; our deep visions are diluted; our ecstasies are promiscuous: to come with time, as grieving for naught, insofar, as feelings are cyclical: as driven by forces, aloft a dream, gazing by nightingales.