I
seek behaviors, that bawling joy, at truths our scars; that inner voice, as
trekking gardens, saluting nakedness; that tray of ashes; those whispers to
wines; our rugs speaking jubilance—as caged regardless, notwithstanding,
worlds, where some cathedrals are appealing; this jest of souls, while aching
theories, afforded our projects: that busy time, seated at podiums, as now a
particular grace: our faces to glisten; our poets to writhe; our psychs
knitting sanities—as long an influx, this pavement of demons, our sour but pure
endeavors; as watching behavior, a bit by leagues, a bit non-aggressively; as
seeing bullies, appalled by lightning, to morph at an instance; this yard of
hopes, our grounds to churches, our crocheted outcomes: those hazel eyes, as
once so charming, that table as witness to folly; those powers by nights, as
pushing by envelopes, at once, that terror of loneliness; as streaming souls,
alive with behaviors, as never to know persons: those inner battles; that
textured brain; those wrenching introjects: by lights a beauty; as delicate a
vision; as purposed as preachers; to invest in times, those outer dichotomies,
for joys come to pass; that burdensome need, to rejuvenate life, as sages alter
sorrows; while more a man, as more to loses, if more a man. So more to lights,
by pits a remedy, as never a man: this shorn excursion, that inner navigator,
that Porsche an engine thrashed—to love we utter, estranged from love we utter,
where love is strata affairs; that falling ocean, those steep stigmata(s),
those errors by times; to plague forgiveness, this thing for selves, a tulip by
clouds: such kindred souls, at warmth through woes, afflux such rhythmic
harmonies—those beige candles; that turquoise ouch; our living-rooms settled
perfectly; as pausing a second, to shift for cadence, this brief distraction;
as mind to cloves, or fiddling with wines, that deep registrar—to see that
life, while to broil a steak, a pot of frozen vegetables: as mother lives,
embedded in countenance, by chance to utter a few words our neighbor’s mouth. We
perish this way, filled with liquids, fumbling through green lights; our
runaway hearts, to adore such richness, at once, this enthusiastic feeling; as
living softly, to behave as jewels, while to live such seclusion: this perfect
us, as long as perfect lasts, where audible voices race us astray. It lives
this light, zipping through stages, performing to dictates. I live it also, a
man of dreams, fleeing as to return to a silent mirror; as father’s son, to
have lived his fraction, at membrance those screaming pictures; to tell a
story, as to share a story, at woes we ever read this story: that wretched
kindness, as outlived sorely, where absence forces feelings; insomuch, to life,
this astonished feeling, attempting to rewrite casted features: that terrible
art; those intuitive walls; this world as impressionistic—where angels watch,
while demons nudge, as both participate through nuances. I conjure this art,
disheartened a tad bit, going through this cyclonic storm; whereat, is violence,
as ever overt, our eyes tiring of confidences—where rites are won, this passage
of souls, a touch embarrassed with ourselves; to soon retreat, as to meet
again, this person we barely see. So more to love, as feeling love, as opposed
to feeling needs: this inner movie, filled with faces, painting a dusky sky;
insofar, as visions, performed through stressors, but a glance at crows as more
ideas: our mystic souls, adrift our scientific(s), plunged into psychologies—as
more resistant, this fool in self, while affronting a studied discipline: our
disciple waves; our cultured flames; this symphony seeping into matrimony;
indeed, to lights, where love is gray, afforded one last dance; where suns
glistens, this mis-of-prints, as striving by candescence: our isolation; our
launch into seas; our vast ambivalence—to find such purpose, as ripples to
identity, to muse with tact; that niche in woes, as creative science, at tears
to feel beyond arenas: such foolish pride; this outer venture; sorting through
primal passions; to reckon Aristotle, this space at desires, accustomed to what
separates animals—that human instinct, that riveting intellect, our praxis and
cultures.
