Oh
those tears, that thrust of souls, those acacia roots; to flute a melody, as
lutes to hell, while grass is bleeding; that green sap, a fist full of waters,
our daughters electrified; as more the pain, to claim such joy, where sons
crucify life: if but that dance, at chances with mother, aloof to pity. I’ve
lived for us, that sudden music, our cadence alive with ink; as spread for
butter, our bread our deaths, at mercies to float sky-harps: that cryptic soul,
at chases to sing, while chastised that cultic bird: if more to siblings, aloof
for life, our hectic un-expectancies; but stalwart arcs, flinging through
waves, at caves to suggest, Immortals: this
frantic fever, as standing aloof, our mirrors judging our scars; as sung
softly, this cypress of liturgies, our groans bathing skylarks. I’ve died to
live us, painted in treasures, at curses a man to angels: our bloody soil;
those waterless weeds; our tumbles through sheer contempt: that flying cow, as
hovering infants, too shy to speak it plainly. We die by colors, as morphed
into chaos, our mothers outliving sons; insomuch, as distance, this intimate
force, running naked through cities; or carving walls, while screaming tongues,
our spectators wailing at dementias: that ontic angst, that morbid soul, this man
condemned for illness; as lives our scars, those evil intentions, as souls mock
goodness. It comes by floods, a fist of fireballs, our algae skipping to
silence: that fatal gist, to sum but friction, while denying rightness; or more
to laughter, while chiding a daughter, as effective as feeding demons; this
backwards journey, as sickening sadness, while we ponder our dispositions: this
furry of passions, while choked and grieving, our ears filled with
pleasantries: such by terror, to exclaim faith, while decided against a pillar
of faith: that smelted iron; those sheltered tragedies; to imagine interior
brains: that cutting rage, as pentagram darkness, floored to carpets; as burns
a scream, graphed into skies, afloat a phoenix as batman’s symbol; that wailing
signpost, affixed to injustice, leaning towards a shattered prayer; as mother
cringes, but a jagged linchpin, as furious as unspoken karma; as but to
wilderness, slamming another castle, too oblivious to censor mood-swings: at
life with prints, our palms thrust asunder, falling downward into sky-hells;
whereat, are goblins, those meddlesome thoughts, this dangling by myrtle-times.
(I feel aloof, a bundle of feelings, adrift our continuum; as filtered through
scriptures, while reading through Nietzsche, amazed by thought-patterns: if
more to live, as opposed to dying, many shall opt for the latter; insofar, as
mischief, reigning in chaos, this easy path; where fancy is law, while refusing
our bare hands, at wars to out-reign our standards: that deep duplicity, as one
oblivious—such dangerous souls; while choosing blankness, those darkest tenets,
at hells to live their own river; while pain is suffering, aloft a fine idea,
while accruing a village of glass; that deep purple, or see-through beige,
effective at that baseline chakra. I’m growing silence, as accused of mirrors,
seeking but vague analyses; where souls vanish, as leaving their carcass,
afforded such transmigration; to flood purity, with muddy lagoons, at wars with
everything breathing: by arts a tragedy; by myths a legacy; by us a feeling
unjustified but winning).
