Wrenching Through Tumbling Fractions

I fly, racing into plural dimensions, at tender anxieties—this fuse of souls, this running moon, our acacia dreams; to fence with demons, as accursed a hex, dating back a thousand years; whereto, are nugget diamonds, a flaming cigar, our hours at dice games. We texture softy, as feeling our errors, afforded one last dance; to see her face, encased in visions—so aloof that last touch; that type of agency, as clashing through brains, as heinous that chamber of gas. It could be noisy, as infused by screams, as clear to rush our souls: that ark of minds; as perished a nation; while torn to ask about proprieties: our lonely waves, as caved in soil, our roots trekking inner cities.  (We dance by fortunes, at tales as warriors, affected by absence; as wanting more, our teary eyes, aloft a dozen dreams: that shared misery, as binding chains, so far our cultivated appraisals).  I feel it creeping, as more it arises, this slanted force, as feeling closer, at intimacy with an overseer. This beige sun, at communications, by practice a gestalt technique; to see our faces, chasing cryptic wings, at purposes an extraordinary mystic: our intuitions; our gray epiphanies; this person as shadowed a thousand graces; while pursuing lightning, to have experience, at expectation to hear a series of delusions: this fist to earth; this curse to souls; as meeting like features a thousand courses: if be it his life, our shady perspectives, at love our perfect strangers: that wilted branch, at tears a symbol, this force of ages to ripen sorely; by far adrift, this inner tendency, at chases to become that feature. It comes with time, as there it sees, this fleece by waves our mirrors: if but to fly, an aggressive soul, as inverted purely.  (Would you have loved, this cruel event, as tortured beyond social graces?—that inner magic, suffocated dearly, a man chasing to redeem normalities—that crooked force, as nearly obliterated, awakening at night, pacing: that feral passion, as lives effusion, at wonders for carrying its sword; at grotesque sewers, by paper boats, flickering a fist of glitter; as living his life, a product of dregs, infused by academia: that kind heart; that quiet disposition; that lurking monster; to see confidence, as arising insecurities, at love to support such faces. I’ll pardon our course, forbidden from such love, as retrieving in currencies such whiffs: that flying airplane, as made with foil, to float but a second; or more to paper, upon a cryptic wind, spinning in loops).  I’ll dance us free, as losing information, a product of searching quietude: that velvet mother; that glittery father; our children as misperceived: to give his life, to chasing frequencies, a bit too informed to retreat: our cold sessions, followed by warmth, our hearts racing upstream.  (I felt a swan, as losing feeling, while to wander a dungeon’s alley; to soon evade, as avoiding capture, but still to sullen grayness: that woman he loved; that family wincing; our dreams to fractures but still to breaths; as swimming deserts, that dry wetness, that humid breeze: if but a soul, as electric as time, this arc traipsing through meadows; to see a face, this outer dementia, as baptized through therapy; where answers blossom, as mothers reveal, that part in art they played).