We
offend by nature, this casual address, as endearing ourselves. (It’s a terrible
tactic, inducing resistance, where said resistance builds a fortress: that
tender friction, at once, a smile, as, nevertheless, this fever for vengeance;
as aloof-closeness, while used for energies, by capture this flaming as washed;
while something watches, at sudden, a name, while filled with indecision; as
treaded deaths, while feeling ecstatic, to broach the unspoken: those cryptic
sights; that lightheaded spark; our residence by midwaves—to arrive at pillars,
this throne of games, this need to feel love—as far a dream, while seated in
concrete, by far deathly afraid of abstracts: this village of persons, by
terror our minds, by grace exulting our vows; to hold contentions, while
floored a mind, peering at similar gestures: they come by cultures, or deep
psychiatry, this conglomerate of activities—that mishmash, as concerning
humans, our gregarious seeds; where souls perish, as coming to lights, infused
by this terrible resistance; to claim our hearts, as wrapped in novelties, by
tears to define every gesture—this mixing music, to rekindle eternity, at
distance this self as authentic). I see for two, to analyze arcs, I see for
three. I see for four, this wooded door, as floored by five; indeed, for six,
as falling astray, while too honest to confront their actions. I was insecure, roaming this island, trying
to fathom communion. I was dead a man, alive a spirit, featured in this dissention;
while seeing faces, as two would merge, as given me insights into our
similarities: this rising castle, those daily pills, this wheel by Ezekiel’s
soul. (I loved a human, by error those grounds, while set to suffer that
journey; as, nevertheless, this tale of souls, by far that first introduction:
that slithering naivety, at once, to ask, “Can one slither unknowingly?” I
leave it to minds, as responsible to sing, our years to sewing by arts: that
tender friction, as playing our instruments, too wise to fathom our failings;
at depreciation, our wings to galaxies, at thunder this ritual of cultures: to
call it religion; or cryptic science; at hells to evolve. I loved a matrix, as
far as minds can see, at once, a terror to hearts: this reading vessel, as
tender to tones, shifting with cadence that heart of pearls; to see his face,
or hear her privilege, at wonders to assess her very aura: that energy
protruding; that psyche thumping; our aches to see mirrors; as centuries churn,
our particles reaching dinosaurs, to confess that rightness to love).
