Debris

I can’t but lost, fueled but gone, to speak appropriate language; to find that voice, as cursed a dream, to imagine shimmering eyes. I can’t but dance, to fix a broken bridge, at tears crawling through lithic caves: this concrete grieving; our mirrors at battle; such myths set for authentication. I must to retreat, as failing his stature, this semi-alcoholic—as quasi-religious, afforded disgrace, while pitted in forming things; this person as alive, while found groveling, if but this swan to realize human conviction. I died to green eyes, this furry our brooks, while confirmed of misdeeds; but more to flowers, as cured an illness, this dream afloat a distant stream; as purposed forgotten, our innards rotten, while sludge’n through normal activities: our mystic urns, to ingest a human, while gnawing through bone: that furious cry, our nights to ghosts, to awaken filled with Christ. I must imagine, those days of clarity, by hills this echo claiming our sanity: that terrible indigo, that dew seeping into missives, our capture as glowing in demons—to arise a father, or more a mother, at treacheries to escape our treacheries. I called forever, our tones renouncing clearance, while to tortures this tyranny of angels: that captive feeling, as retreating harmony, as, too, misguiding literature. It could be gentle, if each weren’t afraid, where truths would destroy a family; but more to fingers, this pointing of hells, while broken a bridge fumbling. I cry by colors, familiar with its own, while mourning this trek of paths; but more to swans, at pure ingestion, seeking for rising into majesty: that treble heart-structure; this want by futures; our pulses thrust into serious conflicts; where answers immerge, while mothers cringe, as fathers are filled with disgust. I must retreat, as seasoned a fool, by which, we become this glorious mansion; to seize for justice, while pitted in wars, accursed for thriving through truths. I feel by pains, aloof to this loss, while revving for this future; where swans see, as mothers maneuver, while mercy becomes a prominent force.

Day Two

I arise by cellos, seated by symphonies, peering into allegories; that cold offensive, our bold inventions, this troublesome sipping; to see through mirrors, that convincing thought, while to retreat for closure: our miracle miles; our cabinet violins; while seasoned to play pretend. I try by love, to embrace such feelings, where reality clashes with instincts: that cry for justice, as aching passions, while dripping into merry-go-rounds: that dream as grieving; our seams as threatened; this long held treachery as singing by mountaintops: those curious eyes; that parrot by mimicry; where sewers are gilt’d in gold: our furious tomorrows; our furious yesteryears; this feeling by guts that rupture: as pure suspicion, garnered from self-perception, this vehicle of self-projections; for life was dim, for self was darkened, wherefore, all human activity becomes slanted. I flee to fly, falling into jadedness, at once, afloat that one kiss; to feel ferocious, trekking with jaguars, our love sustaining heartbeats; indeed, to dream, as wanting beyond our reception, or craving for something we can’t receive; this secret of love, as reaching its reflection, while we pine for glory. It comes as facts, this needs to feel it, by measures to embrace it—where it lives within, or flames by psyches, else, to perish yearning for something that appears foreign. We dance to trumpets, pitted with alligators, befriending crocodiles—this vision is hindsight, our rearview grieving, that tragic feeling permeating our households; to know for scandalous, those privy concerns, falling as fumbling through icecream.