Lazarus (Hourglass)

To let it pass, becomes detrimental, our instruments screaming; as not to live, such mediocrity, as to die as immortals; this short temper, as more by hatred, at gates to fathom faith; this blinking music, to infuse a nation, as green concerning intentions; that godly angst, that wrong question, as morphed a cadent monster: if loved as needed, to ignore circumstances, alive by pure agreements: that casual death, infused by sharing, this culture so rich for souls. We live it livid, accustomed to travesty, alert by rapture our guilt; to perish eternity, at myths by cuffs, kicking at cranes—that fallen crank, those wheels as churning, this itch as explosive—to die a soul, as morphed an omen, while darkness pleads for lights: that jasper rash, as bleeding through flesh—this testy liver: rebuked for solace; at captures for reasons; while precious this lark of violence. We move this gray, as pictured in silence, afraid for Brimhall. It could be rich, as passionate climax, our hearts burning by shivers; to flex attentions, that sky-bred wretchedness—where mother fusions, as father retrains, our aunt’s at wars with irony: to live by fires, our firestone riddles, as firebrand miseries; to grip by mighty, this fuse of lightning, our women fretting by souls; to come by justice, that grandfather clock, our rust to arts by cadence. We love perfection—that greeting of temperaments, as chased afar that ghost by attics; as banshees laugh, afflux our mirrors, those chains awaken solace; as casual madness, this flux of veins, to dement a haunted house; where flames brew, this stew of wisdom, too bold to embark upon travesties. (I’m slipping this way, at chance with death, a caravan filled with pistols; to search his heart, by ways of murder, to let him live. Oh for mercy, as too for distinction, this spirit running through vestibules—as more to fools, alive this majesty, as searching that feeling of bibles; as mother lives, a cannon near palms, alert by actions to thrust his life. It comes this way, laughing but demented, as affecting your hearts; by chance a feature, as lived such death, while others die to invoke it: this rust by passions; this mane by dreads; this sister by legacies; while fretting oceans, as pouring through mirrors, our tiles soaked in liquids: that time to live, as that time to die, abrasive through Ecclesiastes: that shinning face, as stern with deaths, effusion that broken smile; as cocaine addicts, our mothers for joys, while running for tragedies; as sprung to lights, so casual a killer, as metaphors disrupts total kindness. It could be magic, this woman at helms, if but this sore affection; but kids and love and motive and adventure, this core disruption, as seething with envy—that crosses between life and sheer dejection). We return as souls, abrupt at science, fading into this psychological—where patience is warfare, while gusto is bliss, if but this kiss at mountains; where father dwells, afflux this cross, at gravel to grovel through caves: if but to flourish, this festoon of wizardry, to transcend a monster—as richest cadence, this fire by luxuries, as seeping into rituals: that cap and gown, that tear and glory, our hearts as friction; to dine with Satan, this infinite riddle, as making ministers to flame; indeed, this life, this season of changes, to refuse such tyranny; but adrift to miss tyranny, this deep eclectic, this vest of self-hate; where deaths would attach, this venture in time, affection by measures of dysfunction.