Hexed—by Values of Love

Its fair war, adrift his brains, this internal conversation; as linked to witnesses, but cherished by few, our inverted mirrors; adverse to see it, as nonchalance, or broken beyond redemption; that twofold lightning, as cursed a blessing, aborted by death: that furious person, as never to reason, demanding submission; but queens are castles, a series of empires, attentive to wise council; or more a failing, grounded in terrors, by wires a slave to loins. I read a feeling, as to cry emotions, while connected to something disgruntle: this hosts of problems, while refusing capture, a bit to self as therapy—that demented doctor, while sensing disjunction, this man a reflection by lakes: as teaching heart, this lark of wolves, while plagued at four corners; for stories are rich, but not insanity, while burners churn his living-aches: that slanted gait; those beaming eyes; this vacancy as probing his resting hours; while children dance, afforded those joys—our souls kneeling by altars. I can’t to give it, where life is submission, while love trots those valley-shivers; to ache by passions, that flawless face, as tugging at immorality; this beautiful storm, as liquid in deaths, as risen a saint—that faint betrayal, at hearts her minds, by basins a tube of sparks: our casual dementias, framed in chaos, too bold to scold this failing affair; or more to one eye, this beast of burdens, churning through violence; as gripped by men, to want princess appraisal, too cold for glaciers: that fiery ice; that longing arc; at tears but this search for ecstasies—arising in resurrection, so holy a vandal, at our Father’s knees; as taking purities, aloof to apparels, by caps a woman of dreams; this livid insanity, at tiers to fly, but naked a casualty of passions: those majestic aches; as torn by castles; afforded one ark by legacies; to drive for sanity, while painted insanity, at treasures to rid that moral. I’ll die to life, this man withdrawn, as afraid to live life; those terrors to scars, as looped in webs, while legs wrestle for leverage: if but to rise, peering at flawless perfection, aware of such that murky mind; where heaven was darkness, as pills were enchantments, our stomachs pumped a pail of vomit: that wretched valley, encased in temples, our protestant mistakes; as appraised by fires, so full that Ghost, while at women this sullen vengeance; to bend by rapture, as to tug by captures, at once, such gravitational explosion; to return as friends, by far too withdrawn, as life is a series of adventures: that heartless poet; that running musician; our doctors preaching science; as more to perish, while more to love, but a second to suit another. It came that way, while pleading love, this monogamous nightmare; to love that voice, as if mines eternal, by which, nothing invades our mansion. I must for drifting, this fabulous mistake, as if brutal our last dance; as mother laughs, such poetic justice, while appealing to lifeless iron: that furious passion, embattled with eyes, our swords and helmets and golden shields; as three-hundred souls, flushed by deaths, at wars by love as love would die: this mystic ache, by underworld rendezvous, this seductive mistletoe; to reappear, as slain by kef, our radical novel; this love, by hands of silence, to fates with glory: if torn asunder, those promiscuous eyes, how to ask for love—such morbid honesty, while to chase forever, this riddle killing innocence: our quilted wounds, as love’s richness, those seraphic eyes; as cased a soul, our tragedy fair, our opus this sharing of fluids; where sweet for deaths, abased by realities, at parasols for comfort; but never our souls, as such destruction, pining by graces for immortality: if but to scream, a picture as torments, a knee as bending reality; those prestigious ribs, adorned a palatial back, while at wars such gallery thighs: if but to perish, as holding our never-land, our lights by atonements: that rippling curse, as hexed by love, while ever-amore our anthem.