“Keep It Together” (Sights: By London Grammar)

I confess to shame, this mesh of senses, asking that she ponders—this pool of bacteria, this welt to flesh, this sewage of ideas: our broken nights, seated at operas, falling by arias—that soft travesty, as so relentless, our orchestra conducting sorrows—while drilling shame, at shameful deeds, naked at filth and fraught with cocaine; that hectic mirror, those men leaving, that shower made of mud; as tropes to life, seasoned in treacheries, alive a second but a day; those beautiful children, bathed in joys, affected by subliminals: our mothers crying, as felt as blackmail, where sincerity dangles at balconies: that livid angst; that brewing scream; this trek at perfection; to practice love, estranged from love, that inner confliction; as waves form, where whales confess, this theory to ruin souls; to carry pounds, this lave of salvation, close to three weeks late: our graven sanities; those depleting needs; that whisper by bongs; to hate this man, that knows our names, while feeling this gammer by age; as slipping through marsh, at tears to mingle, while hoping for sparks; this contradiction, while seeking souls, if but to feel this precious ecstasy—or touched as aliens, at once, so alienated, by that ache, touch, and response; to want us afar, strangled by emotions, huddled in a lonesome corner—as tugging quilts, while leaking life, this man a fraction of our strengths: that inner stream, this freshet voice, that aborted seed; for mother dies, as father lives, while to ask of a pleasant return; this voice of tears, those years at academies, these things as ruins: that judge watching; that stenographer typing; that lawyer draining souls: if but to breathe, as excepting partial responsibility, where words devastated a self-portrait; but long to love, as long to life, if colors depict happiness; or was it jealousy, this silent monster, where one feels a bit outdated: as taken a posse, entrenched in paining beliefs, a heart that functions by slants: if tuned to arcs, this world we live, to forgo a destitute station—as mother grieves, while father watches, that one to understand—our nethermost regions, to see us at wars, so close to perishing; as never I would, while ever I have, this paradox cleaving to insanities: our partial wings, by aches at two decades, where something had to exist on both parts; for this is nature, as trust would dissolve, while angers distort longstanding truths: this forest of fires, this coppice of dangers, that book filled with names—as if to live, while cold to touch, a fist full of pills; that cryptic connection, while deep an enchant, to return to this vest of nesting; as to purloin madness, as to purloin feelings, while to rob that inner person: those jewels bleeding; this cycle screaming; our curse by pleasures this excruciating headache—as dying life, while living hells, at points to garner fleeting bells: it’s never gentle, unless to practice, by pragmatic terms; that psychological voice, this sudden epiphany, our tortures augmented by perceptions: as if we cried, our neighbor’s sins, fleeing through purgatory—those inner trials, our private counsels, as believing such indelible madness; as affected sorely, that fumbling affliction, at riches such marsh; where souls sin, while falling apart, that reft of swans; to agree with treachery, as committed against mirrors, that reflection gripping sinks: this lively curse, our days to birth, afforded that reach of therapy; for minds are slipping, this oily station, attempting to sing normality.  We regret love, peering at joys, conflicted, this inner reservoir: a bit unsatisfied; a bit to glory; where someone believes in us: swatting at dragonflies; admiring hummingbirds; adverse to gadflies: this chimney smoking; alas, a pure address; those angers brought to fuel; where something grieves, as ever to die, this feeling of sheer animosity; but what are secrets, this chosen life, as to have lived it at joys: that radiant pain, for no one fathoms, this plethora of needs: as dwelling by shadows, content to afflict, while a foundation is bleeding crevices: those torn trials; that deep astonishment; as not by practice, but ever a measure, this love of forgiveness; that wayward life, that grieving fabric, our darkness to crows.