Its
political arcs, at time with brains, unlocked by wilderness; that soft cadence,
upon a harsh volt, while scraping skies—akin to blinding love, that miracle of
hearts, purposed as driven asearch for solace: such clammy weather, those
shrimps with ranch, that insistent music; to reach by mind, that terrible
screech, filtered through bleeding spears: such self-affliction, those
delusional cliffs, as to sip for something our minds. I ponder volts, by lance
something new, to grapple with wonder. I know for souls, pitted in
predicaments, as to strategize by struggles; to pelt a feeling, that petit
incipience, while spinning jumping-jacks: that endless rhythm, as captured her
gaze, afforded luxuries our aches as slaves. I picture swans, sorting through
debris, insofar, as resounding through frustrations; to have that scream,
coupled with outbursts, a group of women reciting, “Forgiveness.” That furious
run; our curious sun; our delirium hard-won; to account for little, seated with
psychologists, our pressure echoing through deliberate motions: those petit
gestures; that remote thought; our eyes shifting to avert such gazes: to peer
within, this craft of souls, by intelligence courted through experience; to ask
of life, this man with issues, as accustomed to reading textures; as silent
wolves, or hard-pressed leviathans, at hearts seeping into chaos; that bleeding
music, steeping into Agnes, to become a participant; or that inking professor,
too wise his lot, while failing to read his agonies; that addict as mother, as
kissed his father, while two remained estranged deeply; to repeat his life, as
to have hurt a soul, where pain outruns affections. I feel for lost, as nothing
unsaid, while at arts those leaking thoughts: by inner blades, leering at Pilates,
our bodies molded by deceptions; to awaken his dungeon, as purposed his
paradise, while feeling desperate to hear forgiveness; that space in souls, as
woes would cry, our adventure nibbling by wires; as performed a vixen, to
outwit a fox, our karma distinguishing existence; where a swan gazes, at ears
those conundrums, at treasures to decode but a few: that trailing river, as
paused our lives, to scrub our palms upon petroglyphs; that deep reversal, as
rehearsed our minds, our daughters asking pertinent questions; to have sung our
cries, as to have germinated our souls, falling that second those swords as
gossip; where Batman dies, our Robins obliterated, where a swan initiates
resurrection: that cave of souls; those lost prophets; this thing with making
excuses: as died forever, this art as more than dust, at best our existence;
where greens for eyes, or beige for eyes, or black to brown eyes—that picture
grieving, our mothers waning, this fixture nailed upon our crosses—to sense
penchants, as becoming willful, by scars to ice dripping by hearts—that
ecliptic moon, as occasioned rites, where perfection kills—those seldom places,
as reached with permanence, our tears through reminiscence: that Congo
adventure: that indelible web; our minds instructed by Bugs; that place as
torn, by forever those storms, as to realize life becomes cartoons: that
mischief banter; our gist as comical; those graves while speaking as souls
heal; indeed, to love, where love would live, akin to seeing love—as snatched
into love, this sin exuding love, where impermanence sides with love.
