Fence Holes

I’ve tried acrobatics, laughing insanely, musing by tyrannies; insomuch, as adventure, running from Freyja, aloof a mirror and tribal; such renowned essence, kissing at seas, thrust by prophetic illusions; as never our graves, by mere a thought, at wonders this ecliptic paradise. I shimmy emotions, at stealth such reflection, a bit batty our convictions; to float by ethics, at wars our morals, if just to listen: this battle of blue jays; this fertile delusion; to capture a stolen glimpse—at hours passing, our minds at Beijing, such a glorious wedding; or more to fancies, one day a legend, as never again those soft tentacles: while such is fleeting; this justice by prose; our subtle irritations; as, nevertheless, this settled security, thereto, that face his dreams.  Probing timidity, if ever it counted, while never it was; as living by rites, as sudden delusion, while, nevertheless, a body was forming: (so blessed our souls that believe without seeing): that sea-lion’s bones; our aquatic fixtures; this ravishing by thoughts something so precious—as romantic souls, our heart’s allure, fumbling through blueprints: those silken worms; as slithering our pages; at sudden to morph into speaking thoughts; but more to sanity, advised to flee, by something internal: our cotton passions; our goblin valleys; our mirrors as glass antiques—to remember his soul, as, nevertheless, such riveting friction—by mere expression, our stature to winds, accused of picklock’n hells.  Our likeness to flames, as distinct and steady, this man unable to speak: that deep frustration, so many years our calibers, that brilliant friend; as calming his heart, tangled at mass, this portfolio of mental caverns: our swelling gusts; that elegant tear; our caresses by tranquility; to live introspection, angered by circumstance, too aloof to love; this crying fancy, as never by participation, some type of ache our spirits.  It tickles to ponder, as never again, prying into scripture; this tempest of thieves; or harpoons of savagery; where thoughts were deliberate: this gentle creature; as crafty as lights; a bit too skilled our lives—spinning at rapture, nibbling catnip, seated by intoxication; that blue-moon-thunder, that jasper sun, our minds at ecstasy—to live as cursed, by forces to maneuver, living out black magic; as never to sentence, this achy delusion, while breathing tenderly: our treks to lemon-pains; our days to thoughts; our hearts to winds: as infused through grayness, at deep admirations, while balanced to realize cadence; that soft passion, at electric gates, gripping through fence holes.