I
meditated Love, found in tornadoes, as inner that volt: to live as persons,
scourged by thunder, our hearts as baby rosettes; this ambit of spirituals, to
locate by swans, our mental duvets; where response is fire, this interval
dimension, while racing to his brains: our cultic vats; our latchet of gambits;
those sways as waves to electrify magnetism; as coming to terror, while
pleading for trembles, occultured to survive through miseries—our civil
pleasantries, as wishing demise, while far that cry for justice: cleansed at
intake, a bit revitalized, to assist that determination.
We flame
to lights, agaze’d at beauty, to address this arrow for sinning—as living that
death, addicted to causality, at forces to immerge as deluded souls. Our swan
to miracles, by an unclean world, while set apart as clean souls; to algebra
life, leering at fractions, a garland as garnet possibility: if sung by
tragedy, I’ll sing our majesty, to live as one losing love—as endearing magic,
this new touch of loneness, as realizing while people employ niceties—that game
of ownership, this hectic existence, an accumulating interests—where music is
brief, as bass is snatched, our voices a dungeon of trebles: that scar broken,
our broken as distorted, our problems a manifestation of our inner selves: that
bias reality, as living by moods, while forced to argue our perspectives: this
cold adventure, while bathed in water, immersed in voltaic calamity: as loved a
soul, to distance a soul, at tender wars to disgrace our reflection: this hatred
of self, as far that cry, while love becomes vexation.
I
felt a shift; that sudden agitation, abandoned to graves—while grasping mercy.
We’re
found in deserts, our netlike beings, accustomed to this need for souls—as
yelled a lady, “I can’t be alone, despite that fact, I’m healing”; this wild
music, racing through experience, filled by years of debris; as claiming love,
this curious feeling, our fabrics to flame!
By
nebs, our ink dripping, warring an inner dragon; as appealing to joy, but
hesitant with joy, but indulging in joys; while something’s innate, as
properties to life, trekking this sandy psyche.
Take
to flying, as faking most moods, attempting to restore that achy drive; where
souls are piths, by morbid cadence, while utter simplicity is hell; that cage
between persons, as livid a nightmare, as more is pain, while less is death.
I
ache by richness, this hectic reality, while moving through this maze: that arc
of lights; that edgy disposition; that calm demeanor—where agitation lives, to
sense this reality: we feel by rights to disturb others: that kleptomania; this
death concerning rules; this spacing ourselves.
I
respect distance, as clearing portals—that need to teach; where human is life,
while life is learning, where personal is rarely a factor.
