Where
by far, this scar by dreams, aloof but hectic screams; this skeleton by aches,
his bones to perish, avoiding direct exposure; this place at woes, that
fortress of sanity, as inclined to cherish imagination. This daughter wails, at
skeleton harbors, but shouldered an invisible ink; as lived through minds, this
ancient realization, our Pharaohs grieving existence; to flutter as winds, this
peril of sins, our barrels flickering somethingness;
our flimsy passions; our deep retreats; while expecting that immortal chase:
to give us nothing, while singing glory, this form of eternity. It comes to
coldness, this place in warmness, as accustomed to thrust and pull: our
delicate embrace, as never but hearts, those filters dripping extensive
grievances; to paddle for petals, this place of trebles, our aches splattered
through divine sprinkles: that ace of diamonds; that king of clubs; this aura
bleeding this epithet called spades; where Princess watches, as aching inside,
to wonder by hate those high cheekbones; but truth to lights, this never
existed, but a man tripping through pigeons: that immortal tear, our years to
escapes, as feeling some sort of spirit: our fathers dying, as mothers
resort—this thing of liquor and beers. I know our pain, as slain asunder, to
wonder of this element of arcs: that cagey smile, as wandering planets, to want
for something expansive: that trickle of tides, to destroy our goals, while
peering at a set of swans: those high demands, that search for perfect, that
Love breathing his voice: if but to live, as but to grieve us, this wish for
utter disappearance. I felt a promise, this purpose of madness, to want for
pleasures those golden eyes—where mother dances, perceived as purities, that
cry so far aloof.
