Hello,
Love—these cosmic channels, at stars with grandma—that furious fuse, our
mothers to galaxies, our fathers near vomiting—as drowning by feelings, while
killed a soul, to flex by beauty that smile: pure Peruvian, while a friend
maneuvers, at causes, to feel a torrent of guilt—as lived insanity, to balance
by graphs, our music dangling by wires. I love by heartbeats, this woman an
illusion, where feelings fail to grasp reality—that compass grieving, as deep
by marsh, to come to chlorine; this inner dial, at phoning a myth, a bit too
cagey but whelmed asunder—if but to fly, our eyes to rituals, this gestalt
majesty: that fatal psych, as more a remembrance, as sensing mother—by tiers a
galaxy, to remove that feeling, at once, to become angry; indeed, to mysteries,
a session by twenty minutes, to fill an inner zero—those giraffes singing, that
elephant to father, those horses standing in majesty—to carve his brains, as
senseless a fuse, this woman too gorgeous for guitars: as surfing by skates, to
ollie by dimensions, at wonders as no one lives: this cold escape, as scraping
reality, to fence a turn for new technology: that genius poetess, as more to
Sophia, to sense this deep infraction—where religion rules, that inner
theologian, to come to grips lost in sensations: that crazed mother, those
hazel dreams, that body racing into torments—to adjust by rekindles, a candle
flickering, that woman a mere menace—if but to die, this man watching, at tears
to realize another sees—as more a feeling, to destroy vexation, while curbed a
churn at silence. I’m feeling graphic, as at love for Brimhall, by currents to
sense a lethal assassin—while adrift through Smith, this page a bit gregarious,
to flourish a second by eternity—that tense bleeding, that friend dying, our
dreams coming to fruition—as courted a diamond, to remember a Princess, as if
time was demented; but hell to feelings, as killed a soul, peering at a
grandfather clock—to rotate violence, this psych his tribunal, that overseer
cringing—or more that therapist, to dine by vengeance, for tongues slip into
abysses: if but a riddle, this sphinx on highs, to trip by cadence, peering at
hieroglyphs. I’m sipping for falling, at love a swan, at membrance Chinese
rice—where life was gentle, as ignoring divisions, to hear that word—that
pregnant mother, those long goodbyes, this feeling to die that currency: if but
to scream, this woman a mystic, as dividing his soul—where a yogi monitors, as
floored a feeling, to realize this man is demented—that flurry through time, to
peer at hundreds, while a bag flurried an infection. I’m silent love, as crazed
a soul, to pause this second: [(What for love, to have that woman, while she
returns to Love; or more to captures, this infuriating ache, to become a
torrent nonchalant—while more to violence, this passive aggression, where
memories mean inflation. I could to perish, as born to Love, while aches tear
into injustice: that delirious notion, where one would die, as if to love a
man’s woman—where distortion becomes extortion, while channeled this
grandmother’s Divinity. I climb to perish, at tops with bosses, as infused a
scream—to perish a psych, this cold excursion, where another becomes human).] I
churn at daybreak, to mourn come noon, aloof but hectic our swan’s dimension—as
bent a comma, to flee this woman, while at best held captive. I loved a song, with deep regrets, to
flourish through Alicia Keys—that graphic nuance, as once to love, while hate
flourishes our mountain—that thin line, as amused to die, at flurries to
administer a greeting card—where mother warns, this crossing of mazes, to
believe I’ll never know us as that culture. [(It comes with vengeance, to love
our Princess, while cringing that he died—that inner grandmother, our outer
grandfather, that woman watching as passing judgments—to course through life,
as neither a sound, while feeling this languishing tug: that tie to silence, to
realize secrets, while some function all the same—as never a man, to love a
scar, while jewels are scattered afar; but hell to justice, while more to
dying, to become a psych’s project)].
