I
envision poetry—this life of majesties, those flat and cyan feelings—as rapt’d
in ecstasy, unable to discern, such augury and pain; that momentous yearning,
to crave burgundy eyes, as able to feel such justice. I laugh a measure, by
falling tears, to silence acidic rain; that casual goodbye, as reaching
intonation, those branches by personality; to want but moments, afraid of
longevity, our hearts pulsating indifferences. We panic to love, an umbrella of
revelries, while at tensions upon a shrubbery: such magnetism; such sustained
anguish; such beauty slaughtered by existence—as still by smiles, or
temperaments found cheerful, as terrorized by joys. I fathom so little, this
walking lexicon, to secern by accident a fervent texture: by haunted houses,
that vocal vestibule, such as sailing stolen by mirrors: that facial
distortion, while peering to beauty, by angst those waves shifting currents—as
burgundy eyes, to hell with caution, to awaken and ask a name; where perfume
lingers, and negligees are sultry, while souls pout by indifferences. Its
sensual pain, as losing our senses, to regain a second studied for years: that
antsy shiver; that gypsum energy; our minds undergoing mutinies—where beauty is
craved, as graves are drawn-out, while combining elements spells for
discomfort. I remain distant, but overwhelmed with compassion, at bars to chase
affective feelings—as cagey nuances, analyzing baseborn status, by terrors to
depend upon perceptions: that awkward glance, those shifts and churns, where
time dispels such perceptions—insofar, as humans, struggling by islands, or a
bit too elastic to freeze a rose: our welkin petals, our firths of passions,
our reluctance to study our raging currents. This religious soul, as living
with skepticism, by moments undergoing inventory: that chapter by signature;
our dreams as tempered; our deaths by life that one person—where mercy abounds,
while sensing distrust, as souls become a smidgen too assertive: that ecstatic
grin; that rare cuisine; those clumps of grass—as wanting children, this
expression of love, our features by this human structure—to ask for caution, as
love shall devastate, by errors we must avoid.
I’m fond about aesthetics, that gray
annoyance, a bit edgy about life—at deep objections, or haunted rivers, to have
experienced those measurements of deaths; to hear by eyes, or see by ears, our
mouths remaining silent; to admire intellect, while sensing uneasiness, alert
to our inherited dispositions: that lucrative mind, so rich by spirit, a season
for fabrications—while chasing rubies, or that pictured glance, sculpted
through binocular brains; to shift a turn, as easing into spirit, performing as
one sagacious: that inner drum, to flute with time, while kneeling near a
credenza—if but to feel, this fiery station, while thumps reach beyond
temperaments: that cautious gaze, as aflame with passions, a bit too deadly for
fainted hearts: such by faults, to love for ages, alarmed our morals seem to
clash—or more to perfection, our cherished dislikes, while building upon a
mutual dream. I’ve loved a second, as founded an artifact, peering into
mystery: that achy shift, our necks to mercies—that lance poking our ribs—where
days scream, as nights yell, by far awakened far too often—scratching his
chest, as filled with flame, assuming a list of spiritual names: that
fabrication, as akin to ghosts, where one laughs at such naiveties—if but to
cruelness, as never those souls, as we re-analyze our established views: that
cryptic furnace; that beautiful silence; our years to playing pretend.
