I
sit at comforts, peering at names, abashed by lotic feelings; to exchange life,
by mere a gesture, at ecstasies this chance to fit: as inner chimes, by
shooting volts, our unspoken language; where perils rapture, as to life our
dreams, at seconds filled with bliss; this miracle of souls, our Bentley coupes,
bottles by tests as sensations; to love eternal, our widths exploding, while
fire streams our crimson veins. I loved a shadow, this torn vexation, while
also to adore a swan; this flux of emotions, at tints to evolve, while mirrored
in treacheries; that fabulous kiss, as one for pleasures, at rivalry with high
expectations; this chase of thieves, afflux harmonies, at tears that sacred
shame. I’m more to sights, as aflame that arc, teaching through chaos
concentration; where swans freedom, this tent of elation, by arks afloat a
series of hummingbirds; as, too, discomforts, this growth through pangs, as
livid with joys our discoveries; while given life, as provided with wings, our
racetracks flooded with dry emotions. I fret to see us, living our domains, at
judgments by myriads of tales: that lens bleeding; our filters screaming; this
needs to search for inconsistencies—while, nonetheless, at war with
perceptions, as dictated by another’s fears; this place in eyes, as castles
abroad, where tendencies avert pure perception; but this is life, asearch for
signs, while congested by impure expectations; this place of trauma; those
years to theater; our hearts bombarded by images. I love that heart, those
beige dreams, those Cajun roots; as fevered for science, while ecstatic a
brain, where fusions come through self-efforts: our cyan skies; our fulvous
visions; our tales to those wishing disjunction: if but to breathe, a bit
flushed this life, our intestines speaking our ambitions; where swans flourish,
as grieving humanity, a touch to fancy this equal of arcs; to sing of passions,
while at tears to vanish, as realizing it’s time to fly. It must be gentle, as
not to ruin life, or more this chiseled abrasion; to ask for clearance, while
destroying innocence, this thing as quite abnormal. I felt a volt, to conjure
that name, while afforded grace to believe: this instinct of souls, as fueled
with love, by arts this sequence of cadence; where love is flying, as flying in
breaking free, while freedom singes naivety: this space of woes, as senseless
with growth, as opposed to seeking fruits. I end in love, at birth this
feeling, and soaring our dreams through sky-mansions.
