Sky Swan

I addressed us, attempting securities, while a marksman as mad—this livid life, our terror depraved; our music skipping volume. I heard us, to ponder college life, as needing that feeling; to escape justice, as she cries in agonies, at flux our guitar—where love is ruined, as tainted a soul, while attempting at dignities. I groan in spirit, as alive by deaths, at courage to reside in names: that shivering feeling; to ask through losses; this deep-dish pyramid—as broken a mind, to carry heaviness, while paralleled with abjection: that curb of flowers; that portico of candles; our infatuation with nuances—as dreamed for passions, at births through aging, aloof to strange occurrences. (You’ll watch me, a mere fantast, alert to myriad souls; to feel a thump, as now going blank, to remember that curse; this portal by love, while one stands aloof, at needs to feel that current—if strangely for love, while feeling ecstatic, at tortures those required emphases; but that to battles, as claimed his life, while one intervened—as sensing foul-play, to swim through marsh, as dangling from a mayfly; as back to winning, this magnet to love, as receiving encouragement: to perish by births; to cherish by lights; to soar upon your journeys: that frightening style, as attending Berkeley, or life to travels—our dear travail, our inner prophecy, this is as is has spoken; to claim by force, that individual, while breeding philosophies—to set by example, this thing of growth, while pursuing something by sciences). I feel disturbed, to have lost that comfort, agreeing with travesties; as pure paradox, at jasper-rivers, a lotus as an informer—to sense those eyes, acting out inquisition, attempting to authenticate rumors; as always seen, that one a slant, while perfection is fraught by realities. I realize pain, as one a single existence, as probed by childhood memories—where mother sung, as singing her song, this world her existence; to cater as needing—that feeling as adults, while becoming a confidant. I ran fields, and plucked lemons, while at worries. I flew kites, those fights at winds, to realize worry: that indebted feeling; as carries its glory; this attentive man: indeed, a paradox, to possess southern hospitality, while agreeing to flee, as soon to return—that courage to give, while riding that train, while touring that dormitory. I’ll hold silence; I’ll observe distance; I’ll mourn while praying this allotment: that fable we live, as pointing at winds, while pleading our story; as, nonetheless, this symbol winking, as pure that song—where daughters ransom—that blinking sky, at turns to appreciate likeness; so more to soaring, as afraid to perish, as to perish a dream.