I
felt darkness, this garden of demon plums, to lose by inheritance; to hear
confusion, a raft upon achy senses—such sweet determination; whereat, stands
madness, whereto, appreciates sadness—those impetuous winds, steeped in mystical
valleys, associative susceptibleness: hereto, are goblins, thereupon, are
phantoms, through which, are manifestations; that plethora of activity, to tip
a light blindly, as dissociative believers. I caught a feeling, that lethargic
mansion, at once, that slippery slope—as absent of wits, accustomed to
superstitions, as if this meant that: our magical boxes; our pins with
needles; that series of coincidences; where Sallie connotes energy, Bobby
denotes spirits, while torn this furry as illegal believers—as screaming
experience, our churches by hierarchy, where darkness requires exorcism. I’m
fleeing beige nights, insomuch, as running, at irregular hours seated in love;
this space of passions, as fraught emotions, by salty tears; to taste belief,
as purposed in faith, while dying a touch that tender life—where porticos
bleed, our perch is grieving, while afar a lotus connotes wisdom; this alien
feeling, stressing psychogenetics, steeped in epic personalities; as so afar by
depth, as studied a man disappearing, while raffled to pure intellect: that
caution displayed; those temperaments splayed; where one sprouts by cadence
from rich darkness; at points, to perish, while cherished invisibly, wherefore,
that incurable resistance: those spaces by years; those passages underlined;
that creepy feeling, at insights, our mirrors—where mother is chasing, as souls
to resurrection, by towers a pavement of pictures: our leery intuition,
therefore, withdrawn, while deeply evading images: those burgundy visions; that
cacophony of whispers; that symphonic epiphany; as days churn, our portals
haywire, at inner cranes tugging infinity. I’m found through time—that ache for
celebration, to awaken seated at negative existence; this space by fevers, as
pulling at rhythms, whereby, something has precedence without admission; to
feel by limbo, this arc of down-tenses, while explaining this convoluted
reality; as purposed a mind, a bit distorted, where words fail to articulate
experiences; our linguistic dynasties, as inborn conventions, while left that
cadence of ambivalence; to mimic context, stationed at metaphors, but too weary
to convey pains; this rich conundrum, as requiring riddles, where a man sits
searching to become discovered: if but to passions, while laughing at irony,
this thing of suffering seeking silence; where father never heard, as grandma
was inculcated, while mother chased smoke screens.
