I’m bleeding
grounds, this cultic overthrow, while beige as desert-winds; at sore addiction,
that occultured life, glaring too unseen to capture—that tedious motion, to dig
his brains, accustomed to personality-magic; our mystic witness, this mingling
universe, to perish by ignorance. I’m crossing futures, as adrift but seasoned,
to feel by rapture such furious power—as, nevertheless, our fuse is silence,
such psychogenetics, afforded our psycho-skies—by dry rivers, or deserted
peaks, agaze’d that reprobates repent: this rivet soul, as rippling through
sanity, always that pinch of darkness—as indebted dearly, our wordless
meetings, to sense cosmic interference—where love is foreign, as loneness is
happiness, such strumming by witnesses; that inner meadow, that clique of
lakes, while pouring into distinctive traits: that music suffering, as formed
by life, those syllables uttered with precision; to stir into frenzy, while
cagey about frenzies, to have this war: our particle-brains, as deprived of
rest, living by the Eucharist. I saw for broken, those pieces straddling shag,
our carpets following us—that market, as invisible essence, to kiss by shivers
those trembles; whereas, it lives, as surely to arise, this space in hearts our
fetid cares; to extinguish by rites, as to rev that cultic engine, in hopes of
diminishing a key element; while never to deaths, as acclaimed officials, dying
where others live—by furious fruits, to shift by turns, as locking eyes in
mystery; to doubt by eternity, as living by mortality, as seen in pictures as
immortal spirit. Our deer has vanished, but still to visions, at peace trekking
a sky-oasis—as souls flee, our shoulders but a glimpse, our gypsy-nomadic
natures afire—as seated in permanence, this impermanent ritual, where by coven
a universe in forged: that wordless lyrical; that skyless ether; that valley
devoid of green pastures; to live as pressure, to know for miracles, to become
that immortal palm—as, nevertheless, such steep vulnerability, and such rich
loneliness, where family has rooted its eternity—that fuchsia wand, those
mahogany stencils, that portal through human magic—to die by cages, afforded
that glimpse, where knowing becomes a hindrance—by which, that experience, as
legendary atmosphere, propelling insanity: if but to life, as sensing
particles, to grip by brains but a slither—where chills become, as flourishing
through brains, this conglomerate of psychical activity—where parents linger,
as souls envelope, a bit dreary from too much information. I’m zealous to
unravel, this evidence in souls, as subjective madness; to render by experience,
a group of minds, while pursuing infinity—as mortal minds, or immortal hearts, to
wrestle by dreams: that whelming feeling, that weal to arcs, that vox as silent
but a whisper—to see with vision, this living master, those persons at
invisibility; insomuch, our nighted-days, as queens and knights, while
incurring that rapturous darkness; that mask of masks, so ripe by unsaying, as
removed from previous dimensions—this jasmine moon, by jasper skies, as
jousting with ghosts—this removed feeling, as ever by doubts, at wonders this
prolific warfare—as cried his lights, that bleeding vase, fraught by
unrest.
