Monday, June 26, 2017

I Feel Your Force, Love

We adjust, Love—forever at forever, explosive at velvet stars; as rapid lexicons, or morbid gems, at love by sights. (Communion is similar to chemistry; albeit, there are several textures: it becomes imperative to utilize discernment). I know your heart, as first to know his own, swimming through murky humans; to see our mirrors, to examine our arcs, while strangers to our auras: our scudding senses; our flitting frenzies; those few we can’t ignore: where temptation scorns, while galaxies swarm, our silence disrupting our cravings. We treasure friendship, not merely for security, but more for this therapeutic pressure: that jibing and jabbing; that trenchant confidant; those hours to turquoise sensations. (Mothers adore us—while lost in innocence, as realizing a series of dislikes; as, nonetheless, at measures to protect, while falling into shadows: our bleak realities; our shifty moods; that Promise of milk and honey).  We examine fire, as realizing ourselves, at wonders when something is eating away: that horrid disposition; that churning contemplation; our waiting through this throttle of affections: befriending pillows; disgusted with reading; too involved for prayer; indeed, a country by feelings, by living emotions, too concerned for healing: that inner montage; that pillage of darkness; that sudden elation! (I know your heart, this threshing for perfections, that self-conscious conscienceness—leering into adulthood, a bit abrasive while learning, at wonders when clamps seep into silence; this music of arcs, while seated at treasures, a bit too distant from reality; as projecting portraits, those rabid ideals, while much to living, admired. I hear your brains, as first to hear his own, trekking forever to reach his childhood: those jazzy oldies; that sip of beer; our mothers alive by personality: if but to grasp motion, while sectioned by joys, our mornings a bit to recouping). Life is measurements, this wrestling of helms, as participating in those rhythms that ache our souls; as much to grains, to nurture our harvest, at once, to exclaim, “It’s ripe”: this fortune of minds, to love by rapture, while resisting such copious feelings; our flitting souls, so cold but warm, adjudging new things based upon past experience: ourselves as home-plate; our pains as reservoirs; our fears as signposts. (I love a dream, to have held a dream, as stitching dreams).   

PS.

    The strength to withstand the winds; a spell as it effects/affects some creature. A sudden moment filled with absolute certainty, so wro...