Life
as pictures, this long memory, while fleeing feelings: such rigid glaciers;
deeply apologetic; but too far in to retreat…that musical house; those haunted
passages; our vestibules as rotating mirrors; to catch a glimpse, by sights
welkin hells, by rights an inner plaintiff. It would be love, as to fracture
love, by never an intimate moment: that city of fire; our skies as promised;
our outer selves as forgeries. We become by passions, leaping by faith,
arriving at something beautiful; those hands to water; our bodies immersed; our
heart-flowers as ghosts—thrumming as cosmos; electric as night winds; too bold
for immediate comfort. We live as portrayals, but a crevice of ourselves, by
acres that flying pulse; to capture essence, as realizing differences—that time
at puddles our actualization. It comes as built ships, our lilting through
seas, at steady pace those rising waves; to touch by heart, that furnace of
rhymes, by caption our tilted echoes.
Our
motives shift, as calming festivals, our mornings by chance a miracle: that
soothing smile; that trickle of volts; that falling resonance…such pegged
emotions, our tortures unlocked, while pleading that fire to wash it afar: such
pitted responsibility; our wagers garnered; our promises by silence…insofar, our
cadence, that vulnerable feeling, while realizing trust.
Such
by hectic lives—adrift that inner bout, at turns exercised in ecstasies: that
hypocritical, as more reality, becoming by contradictions; to love by essence,
or more physicality, as to capture by glimpse immortal affection: that tender
palm; those dying gestures; where souls leap by cliffs: if but to win, while
seated at desires—so many tentacles threshing our rendered passions.
We
remain opposites, at hopes to locate reality, while seeping through portals:
such cries revealed; our deacons pondering deepness; those hopes we extract
through deception.
It
becomes this life, at souls, our conscience waves, forever by motive-kindness:
those loops of sanity; such as gray agonies; where love becomes something
entangled: those sad glances; our sincere vows; our puzzles crafting
measurements…at hearts with care, while years build mansions, where souls
repent through actions.
