Hi Love

We doctor life, aborted to deaths, as infused a dream—to scream by mother, our knees bruised, as she kisses our lesions. I cried affection, to perish amore, this wound bleeding his aches; that facial distance, as close a scar, to reflex his doubts—as abrasions that curse, affixed to perfection, fleeing from rehab—as deep conviction, to ask through portals, as one dances that chant. I ache a tear, as so intimate a diamond, to become that lethal monster—as breaking his soul, to feel ecstatic, our grandparents cringing: if but to die, as death was cool, this living by catastrophes;—I’d blink thrice, headed for Kansas, or more those show-me states. I long a scar, to meet a queen, too far gone for justice: that magnet heart, that fatal grin, those treasures grieving our pains; where love was magic, as attached a year, to fear commitment; as cried a wolf, or more leviathan, while our country suffered by ignorance; to come to lights, a pagan as a dream, our abortion by existence: that angry host, as seeping into madness, occasioned by terrors; to ache a swan, as seeping into spirits, to realize many have joined—this pleat of mystics, as driven through voices, to admire by cadence: this wealth as filthy; our antics as abusive; this ore a dynasty—where daughters flee, as running through deserts, to meet that graphic Ghost. It came with hell, as never for chorus, while fun was pure; where mother shook, as breaking fences, lost and dead at transference; while often it speaks, this place of selfishness, as speaking in volumes: that tremendous knowledge, as performed in vacuums, while territories ravish existence: that current winking, that mother crying, that space as impure wisdom—it comes with crime, sheathed in blankets, where father appears a solid voice: that steep training, to know by life, while mother sutures confidence. We need faith, as inflamed our senses, to drive a baseball—where cavalry bleeds, this feeling of persons, as too far deluded; while, nevertheless, that other pleat, standing against definitions—that fixation, to remove his brains, while feeling immortal—this tat as grieving, that mother as seething, those tales as accurate—to die his life, accustomed to warfare, as born to battles—where mother was god, this intolerant position, by wits acquired through street-life. It could to die; or it could to live; as advised through prayer. [(I panic mother, for welkin misery, while appealing to grandma—that fallen soul, accorded a kiss, while entering heaven; this vex of strengths, as cursed to flee, while running through dungeons)]. I ask for mercy, this blessing as bleeding, our affects to torture our verses—where pain is joy, as joy is pain, for one visits so infrequently: to build a fortress, this ritual of castles, to amuse that paradoxical mansion—as carried a cup, to administer a guillotine, this vex to prepare a dove; indeed, a curse, to move by measures, as lived infinity—that hex of souls, as coming to return, a bit absent of our last life; whereto, this deep aversion, to sense by intuition, this ‘thing’ as devoid—our cultic brains, this flooded gap, our music at tears with justice; to flex a million, while spending immortality, while scratching our eyelids. I’ll take to passions, as lived our fathers, to emote through pain a casual disposition: that psych as livid, that moon as grieving, our sun as flamboyant—to scream a dream, to wonder control, while wailing about our lives—to love a swan, a seven year abrasion, where affection was oh so plural. [(It could be death, for much a dead soul, while faith has won a kingdom: that immortal church, as a curse evolves, while aliens are deemed by anathema; as split in currents, this fuse as living, as one indebted)].