It
becomes sullen, this elated feeling, at mental conferences; to see day-stars,
to orbit memories, to exclude naught: that inner Frankenstein; that inner
Dickinson; that paranoid Greene: if but to life, that heart-professor, as
included to riches, our partners wary of long-distance; to conjure by lots,
this pail of salt, while needing closure; as touched as mystics, our
orientations, a treasure buried at resentments: our medieval gaits; to perish
our gates; such religious furry: that graphic bar, aside a soul, peering at
psychic eyes; to shed a tear, three minutes a psych, as preparing by
countenance: our terrific scars, at dreams for militias, this vest of immortal
balance. I lost a friend, as losing existence, while dreaded that flaming
return; as born through deaths, a father to struggles, our mothers but
casualties; to give spirit-hearts, by treasured dungeons, retrieving a fist
filled with hopes: that crooked pavement, as blurry a star, stumbling upon
artists. It could be gentle, if birds sprinkled, that touch of cherub-dust:
this thick bark, refusing his ax, that family refuses God; insofar, as
momentum, insofar, as Passion—this
aloof nature piecing Christ. I love for songs, a sword for tribal, by piecemeal
unspoken affections; as detrimental, if soaring a curse, where emotions delude
our otherworld sanities; to feel it slipping, as replaced with fusions, as,
nonetheless, a cherished vessel. I’m deeply curious, this thing of half-humans,
aloft by terrors that forte of darkness: by reaching souls, this elitist cult,
by Hippocratic Oath: this feature in minds; our minds in personalities; our
personalities shift universal currents: as more a dream, unless esoteric, by
measure a flight by stallion forces. I saw a mare, while striking a cigar, at
sudden, to feel a mist; wherewith, were feelings, as devastated by sorrow, to
picture something gentle: our brains to flare; our dreams as ghosts; our
daughters as perusing all things: that furious fire, as drenched in concerns;
while, nonetheless, this aching churns: that musical cross; that inner mass;
this protestant vying for experience; as morphing currents, while tugging
caches, at reach to explain a serious dilemma; hereto, by forces, this casual
downstream, as one sits to pondering a particular expression. It shall come, by
driven that chase, revealed as pendulums: that dirge as flutes; those flutes as
feelings; those feelings as wings; to express concentration, as faced by
currents, while adrift this world of energies: our questions come, by
suffocated truths, while admonishing religious secrets: this pounding mind;
that ink-filled migraine; those sparks to arts as supernatural; to bend with
winds, afflux a hellish spin, at mercies that kindness didn’t come: that
furious feeling, as living in accordance, while trampled as stippled justice;
but love to science, as love to religion, if both are exhausted for aiding
others: this life of saints, adjusted by convictions, as if to perish knocking
upon doors: our sagic swans; our swamic sons; our love to flurries: if but to
breathe, as included upon a gift, a bit reckless to spread molasses.
