Value By Soul

I feel inadequate, while signing this address, fevered by the loss of transgression; as never to awareness, that animosity, where one snatches by reigns: that inner insanity, those wishful wells, this place in hearts our lungs to ache; while losing legacies, he arrived at mania, this threefold dimension: those curious tears; that vibrant passion; those years to reading missives; to need for fairness, that assembly of persons, to hope for what another cultivated: that gentle mirage, as filtered by reality, where pain loves by sacrifice: that cultic essence, at golf with discipline, while morphing into a female apostle; or more by structure—that delirious function, while addressing self as spirit.  We explain phenomenon, by relying on senses, even that extraterrestrial activity: this killing of souls, while becoming Positivists, where discomfort forbids accurate definitions; insofar, as us, this space that doesn’t exist, where, nonetheless, agony has seized reality; by cryptic association, as avoiding obsession, while, nevertheless, an inner clock has spoken; as dying to run, revolving those mirrors, while to whisper a forbidden name.  I sense frustration, as ever we dwell—gathered in a pit of raccoons. I sense delusion, as never he uttered, where birds were chirping.  There’s an onlooker, pleading for mercy, while denying reciprocation; this space as confusion, insomuch, as distraction, while his soul has climbed an air-step: that ecstatic brain; that introspective island; that pulling as resistance infuses a dynasty; to need for clearance, while desiring rapture, insofar, as kneading composure; to tug at life, while cemented in existence, our whereabouts needled by imposition: to feel by shifts, that name to appear, while concentrated on realness: that tangible ache, as reaching for air-caves, while suspended by petroglyphs; as forsaking cagey, while forsaking visions, as, too, forsaking hopes; for love has suffocated, where reality cleaves to presence, as opposed to becoming engulfed by prose; this place he lives, as never for chases, while considering that rising child.  (I’ll share a secret: this world of extra-reality—has become richer than that of reality: by tentacles, as ever that exchange, I reaped the best parts of our worlds; but days are tragic—that orientation, as literature embeds our cavities; moreover, verses are haywire, as becoming more precise, while core-reality dangles by cloud: that feral passion, as clashing with perceptions, while I await its return: this space at hearts, as sky-fevered rivers, insofar, as realizing demarcations; to have sung something sweet, at loses to offenses, where cadence would rupture into ecstasies; but, notwithstanding, we lose as gaining, insofar, those hopes towards perfection); or tender eyes, as blotted by wisdom, to have survived the harshness of humans—where love morphed, as inner realization—that self-conscious amazement—as, too, a feeling, as needing ventures, while cleaving to reality.  I lose with honors, to have swarmed with breath, albeit, those beginning years are excruciating; to sense it comes, as shifting its momentum, while out-mazing this width of intelligence; or time has suffered, attempting to forfeit breath, where persistence dances with extra-reality.  I should retreat, while science aches, as filled with communion; this vestige of rites, as soaring with brains, accustomed to heart-communications; if but to drift, by essence by sadness, while to function as a giant: those cryptic souls, as mentors to pains, while, nonetheless, I’m grieving this feeling.  (I’ll confess a dream: our passions are screaming; our aches are knitting; while certainty invades us).