I’ve
wasted years, pinned as a post, fumbling through dreams—as encased in times, or
crimes by cultures, to lose by wealth that aching nightmare. I’ve gained
miracles, those echoing eyes, our tenfold paradox—while silence appears,
wafting afore dungeons, peering by mercies—if but that lock, our vocal keys, to
unpin by knitted gowns—that inky brain; such leaking terrors; that something by
pride to forfeit. (I felt that flame, our terrible shadow—by such for power our
larks. I gazed afar, by mentals our rivers—shivering through spines: as wounded
softly; or curdled harshly; this place of envies for something natural—that
symbol signpost; those aqua fire-plants; our planes forfeiting their landing
pads: by grace to perish, or grace to live, at love as if masters of science:
to court so gently; as webbed by cafés, abandoned to haunted-our-dreams: such
tension bleeding, for perfect those stars, our scars becoming mediocre; as
children save for ghosts, or die for naught, while nibbling a palm of rice:
that rushing pain; our intelligent acreage; our tears swelling into puffy
oceans: that soul gazing; those daisies by deaths; that infant nursing winds;
while back to course—this delusional sin, while to make of life our riches: our
achy misprints; our tiles those faces; our mirrors speaking cryptic eagles: to
pause with life; at wonders that illness; to hold against us that ‘thing’ we
hunger for; as life-grinding; or whirlwinds bleeding; to disappear by human
tendencies: our tendentious souls; our flowers checkered in anguish; those
deliberate measures amazing our souls: if but to threads, as seams wrenching,
while writhing injustice: those purple pains; that patient progress; that
pressured passion).
