After
loses, we shadow haunting(s), familiar with sketches; this face at portals, as
meeting your parents, this fleeting mirage; as built to bury, our arks
bleeding, by pictures that hummingbird.
I can’t reach you, unless to reach you, while to perish tyranny; this
fretting of souls, as captured insanity, alive but caved in petroglyphs: those
abrasive arcs, as searching for violence, where warriors remain ingested: those
cutting sparks; this evasive missive; that grown swan at terrors. We know for truths, this welkin invention,
those buttons pushed by mirrors; to see by legacy, this fleet of wolves, as to
pinpoint such history; as caved a conclusion, our witty grandparents, that
response generated by nerves; as so elusive, those pageant eyes, winning but
unseen. I’m little to senses, while
touched by essence, that woman that drilled infinity; as soon to peter-out,
that stature of statues, that tribal insanity; to dement our frames, this you
in us, bouncing from person to souls; as needed to float, this kef by
examination, too gone to return. After
loses, we shadow haunting(s), falling by vestibules that hearse; to see you at
silence, so far advanced, ignoring our orientations: those nicking lips; that
purpose by destruction; that cut by chance of being seen; to hold us
accountable, while to jettison—as losing, this intentional self-loathing. I should advance, this desert of energies,
while condemned to ignore intentionality.
It chimes with brains, as finding excitement, where one is aiding the
obvious; as, nonetheless, that neighboring trauma, so close to attics, our
banshees seated in our dining rooms; where portraits chatter, as ceilings
grumble, our souls to pillars at far those caves—if died his stature, that deep
confidence, as to imagine this vicious woman; as father fled, for mother was
sick, while a child was nurtured to out-see—this cadence of richness, our cyan
prayers, as to meet one angered: those shimmering emotions, as wiser than I,
abased but lofty, at rubrics a sheer nightmare.
It channels souls, this haunted house, while neighbors exhaust our
shrines; this purpose breathing, as tired of rhythms, searching by glance this
monthly visit. I should retreat, for
this is mystic, while all things remain askew: to witness a fortress; as to
wreck a fortress; by admissions as giving it powers; where war is mythic, while
rebuilding is genius, a series of merging by dynasties. After loses, we shadow haunting(s), engraved
in your soul; whereat, is silence, this tiring of habits, this season of
seclusion; to morph atop time, while to remember Sybil, as more a vehicle as
chosen a bull’s-eye; insomuch, to aide, by means of self-interests, while
selecting reflective images. I sound
paranoid, at chances to have seen, this essence as felt in pits; where mother
lives, afforded classes, while morphing through testaments. It should be life—this welt upon brains, as
to induce a spiritual trilogy: that inner matrix; that mental oracle; this
woman by math an algorithm; insofar, as nostalgic, forced by existence, as
plagued a taste of immortality.
