Temperaments Adjust By Seas

We return to sadness, while sawing at weeds, by pride, by soil: our wrangling roots, as swatting at june-bugs—admiring beehives: such invisible magic, by such invisible passion, as cohorts a group of invisible brains—so adjusted we died, by infusions to live, our reasons to picklock madness—at chance for such kef, that rush of adrenaline, running while galloping that spacial wilderness: informed by locusts, that merging by breath, our associations a pinch of what we cannot see: those fantastic drawings, our brains inverted, by treason our thoughts whispering—to dine by hearts, such invisible motion, to witness dreams scudding our kitchen floors: by tragic affection; our thoughts captured upon camera; our hooves advocating cynicism: at tortures to fly, as caressed our soul-minds, flickering by blue thunder. We must by energies, to resurface our marble hearts, if but to breathe outwitting deaths—this space of virtues, about which, is terror, afloat a scream—that basin of wine, that vine of grapes, while reaching to unburden our shoulders—that javelin cry, that wrenching harpoon, our sanities splayed upon ceiling mirrors—such tender angst, our faces twitching, our children courting immortality. (It lives this voice, as similar to our hearing, as familiar with our feelings; to come this song, a bit distant from life, while at wonders about such upclose captions: our teary-eyes, as not a drizzle, a tare misty edging by cliffs; to resound inklings, our billion dollar engines, as petrified without oil—as flew by dreams, while parading those joys, to have our energies upon waves: that place within, to jolt a circuit, as others come from raining skies—that torch as flickers, our vitamins to souls, our cocoa buttered palms; to erase tomorrow, while established by today, where we suffer this odiferous loss). Was pain impure—this ecstatic justice, as flew our brains—another’s soul; insomuch, as drained, by course to elope, that bride by chance, Existence: that morbid fluctuation; as informed unknowingly; our intuitions as godly machineries—to break by aches, this space of there-and-now, to perceive cues by mere a glance; to hold infinity, as to alter by shock therapy, or merely to listen while grounds to rumble—that mystic art, our daughter’s inheritance, this moonish soul so torn by cycles—as lived in silence, or plain too vocal, a furnace to maintenance by neighbors: that inner feeling, as upon his brain, while hearts shift at sea.