What
becomes by feelings, such intricate algebra, our rights pleated by emotions? I’ve
wailed this aura, at errors to confess love, this velvet conundrum…while one
sits, pitted in unbelief, feeling some type of way: our inner engines, our
violet dispositions, our kindness dissipating: that majestic wit, abandoned to
sarcasm, by essence our worlds to satire…but more to plagues, that authentic
diagraph, our graphs pitting our bones: that crying missive, at bears to love,
our hairs by grayness those thoughts…to perish with time, at immortal love,
through errors to gain perspective. (I’ll treasure such rain, sipping blueberry
tea, while nibbling banana bread—where feelings are residual, that permanent
sequence, by features our shifts that maze…as courting pash, insofar, as
incantation, albeit, too cold to afford such heart-tares: that second to
mind-breaks, that leakage by discomforts, this shift as captivated by danger. I
heard by heart, this awkward feeling, while never that risk through sandy dooms;
nonetheless, this want for silence, as speaking its dreams, where pressure
becomes immortal…to have that feeling, as some type of person, by far to love
as more than a muse: that princely king; those explosive lyrics; by afar those
symbols abed such fluids; to know by love, this song of psalms, while cleaving
for eternity). It means forever—this welkin heart-cut, while one (snails) by
massive lakes to re-court love: that singing harp; that lyre of thieves; that
flute by soul-beats: our drums too clever, to forgive weakness-points, by cages
to pursue where hearts cry: that lavish gesture, as to ruin our minds, while to
confess that old trial. I’m soon a soul—attached by imagination, with nothing
but confetti to latch to…our burdened souls, albeit, removed, trekking through
haunted caves—that grave as whistling; our shower-time as lethal; our aging as
reason to love eternally. (I noticed by shifts, this lack of essence, but this
too during that year; where music morphed, as days cried, lying by countenance:
those slavish arts, studying Triolet(s), musing upon this Zenist mystery; to
have that feeling, exhausted by foods, at terrors to admit such creeping
depression; but ever that song, as pure imagination, while running this body
into depletion: that lethargic grin; those forced shoulders; those moments to
meditation…to love so deeply, insomuch, as fate, while mending
heart-pressure…to cut turquoise grass, a fist filled by clumps, while fiddling
a broken rake; this earth of souls, to traverse through bowels, while pitted in
heart-mirrors: our skies as plural, as death would capture, this mind bent on mirages: that mind of value; such steep dedication; plus, such plaguing
agitation—to need for affection, while choosing pro-feminism, at arcs to win while refusing capture; or more negotiations, seated in individuality, by choice detaching our
scars). We feel by motion, some type of predicament, both too stubborn to acquiesce…while watching Star Wars, to study by force, that
second to extract such waves; as fancy should, our days to melancholy, pitted
against that island of vanity; as immortal souls, too entrenched for fancy,
spelling this ache across deafening ear-flies. It comes that heart, while never
to silence, where one is oblivious to animosity…but hell to clarity, as more to
impressions, as laughing but lying while others are content…for this is life,
that fever of feelings, that pond of geese—as more to curses, knitted by
classism, to admit to souls that vetted choice…indeed, to miracles, pleated in metrical(s),
too far gone to retreat those tracks.
