Leaves
are rustling; squirrels are tussling; while thoughts are rabid by chaos; to
calm with patience, those adverse skies, ignoring his majesty. Souls are
shifting, where palms are bleeding, such nails piercing millennia. I fiddle
through pages, inverted by terrors, as staring at skeletons: that ageless
grief, existence as black art, our auditoriums fraught by cries: our prosaic
ballads; our theologies writhing; such as doctrine becoming visceral. Such
voiceless doves, at love his arc, this eclectic invasion; at midnight pudding,
by axes for logic, our touchstones refusing clarity: to vacant by space, alert
to moving objects, as, nonetheless, frozen as animated—those inner reflections,
as gothic museums, pacing rugs ten thoughts closer—that frantic wind, aflame
his quarters, our chimneys by soot as evidence: this gravid rotation; our
tumbling by weeds; as essentially existential: that livid benediction; that
soiree of feelings; such cagey flirtations. I read a love letter, such violent
emotions, too cold to journey summer: those pacing clichés; those mystique
intentions; such pulchritude our northern nightmares; as fumbling Chardonnay,
our jacinth blues, aforetime, a flute by moons; that distracting beauty, while
tugging emotions, a man craving another’s station; to harness regrets, to
possess travesty, by cages a sheer catastrophe; where doctrine flickers, that
war with self, this forbidding of mirrors—as moving our lives, kneeling at
estuaries, feeding feral instincts. I’m palming bark, fiddling a glass
harmonica, unable to touch sounds: that sarcoline trauma; those beige
mountains; at horrors, that echo thriving—to hear for essence, this breastplate
of violets, that vine of grapes; to wish by craving, at little for evidence,
attached to our imaginations: those alabaster emotions; that molasses of
feelings; our offices to ponder futility; at hopes by flames, aloft such mental
treacheries, to find for cadence something gentle: that musicality; that tone
of justice; that miracle as language touching souls; insofar, as warmth, this
preference for love, where passions are ever available: that limn of life,
concerned with living, to flit as flying internally: that nice richness, as
pursuing eternity, by earth to witness peaceful conventions. Such is cosmic
dust, or that feeling for Zion, racing as chasing that inner image; to hear by
voice, this legacy of nothingness, as
to harness this potential for somethingness:
our Pneuma groaning, this glint flickering, our virtues at battle. (I hint
by thoughts, as opposed to claiming such grief, where Love ached at morals:
that casual perusal; that posy of emotions; our fens flipping rabidly; to see
such passion, aflame in thoughts, as to never face cosmic cradles—as love
perfects, this timely capsule, gripping to securities: if healthy our minds, or
livid our souls, perfected by piety).
