I
feel that person, your inner persona, so close disturbed by distance; such
melic trauma, or born again wits, while savage a grin by touch. I feel that
person, as esoteric, or this inner eclipse: those seated eyes, examining a
perch of truths, affected by mere absence: this welkin dream, to have our
wants, while feeling contentions: if but to live, accustomed to dying, this
scudding sensation; to live by fires, or graced through abuses, our minds
releasing linchpins. I feel that person, a bit disgruntle, as, nevertheless, by
accordance to her waves. I’ll break silence, if but to confess: We live by
nature with each person we meet…that distinct shift, those yogi truths, our
mystics stumbling through activities—to find such cadence, alarmed by
reception, our hearts seated in stillness—that mythic motion, as internal
screams, to flood by thumps that silent music. I feel a person, asking
forgiveness, while sectioned by disdain; that cautious middle-ground,
surrounded by like-minds, too aggressive to sense that inner whisper—as drowned
our ears, this pleated insanity, our thoughts by causes our distress; but hell
to reason, when it feels so ecstatic,
our boundaries permeating contempt: our treacherous justice; “I must be
rights”; where I suffer this rhythmic infection: to want for love, while
harboring affections, too aloof to feel colorful eyes: this wretched man, as
filled with paradox, taking seriously this thing of sheep(s) and goats; as pure
classification, this us against them, this form of alienation. I feel
that person, as we wander astray, kneeling while peeling plums; as flesh to
wither, our arcs to wilt, our wedges growing powerfully. I feel that person,
those thoughts by chi, that wellic harpoon; to die forever, at treasures a
star, where love becomes this foreign excursion: to live by graces, as blessed
by fortune, this tendency to point wands; or more that spoon, as fed to queens,
where poverty becomes aversion. I’m want to regroup, as so far removed, by this
arc surging gently: that furious temper; to shadow that gorgeous temple; while
groups are stranded at faux pas: those infinite chimes, singing your essence,
at tears to release our fires: our sundry hearts, by measures to music, this
thesis as needing confirmations: that premise growling; our trombone as
resounding; our lines as blurring: this width of time, to capture pains, while
adrift by feelings. I feel that person, as so skeptic an art, as so close to
destroying magic: this cryptic sensation, to want as falling, while rising a
product of another’s dream; as dying to live, while flowers bloom, our seasons
as deciduous nightmares. I feel that person, so lit to heaven, as killing us
softly.
