I
imagine she dreams, featured in volt-paws, ecstatic to feel luxuries; this myth
of minds, at sheds through magazines, and neck-deep in pluralities: that
mischief aches, as abandoned to miracles, this life so fraught by sorrows. We
die for sexy, to touch our palms, leering through eyes that moan; that terrible
fancy, to want for mishaps, so confused our seesaws: if but to vision, this
culture of deaths, at kef too prideful for addiction; that mirror of lives,
those fitted jeans, this math too excelled for temperaments: that pale flesh;
those magnetic hips; this venture but a ruse to deceive. I spoke it plainly, as
one that lies, a bit irritated by overt kindness; this play of arcs, to shift
with grime, as walking that distance to disdain such fools. It should be
gentle, this thing that never was, as for time too destitute to condone
liaisons; but hell to facts, while leering at science, too confused to strip
this vessel from harmony’s arms: that cadent star, but a second of pash, while
to remember such classifications: that evil man, as never for lost, while
losing his sanity. I must confess, this sudden advance, as to mesmerize that
ache in brains; as deliberate women, so in-tuned with energy, to ponder his
name at close proximity: our evening woes, while seated wit Love, as convinced
another is coming: that cryptic ache, while charged a volt, this cadence by
arcs as incandescent…indeed, to perish this land, where acres breed ghosts, to
trek by meadows our living scars: that parish of screams; that woman he
couldn’t muse; our feathers by communion; that savage life, as metaphysic, or
by grains a texture existential; where mothers cringe, as to realize music,
while such to muse upon, It could never
be! That place of talents, while braining for wars, if but to feel that
manic gem. Oh for tortures, as to meet but thrice, our lives melded through
memories: that silent whatever; that
achy whosoever; those tears embedded
in science;—to ache his mind, as never to spittle his name, while to
concentrate his attractions: that mystic arm; that shifty deception; our music
as but a gift that soon elapses; where fathers laugh, as holding to silence,
while psychs pardon our trenchant ignorance. It comes with time, that
therapeutic, while to climb through myriad mood-swings: as cut to bone, or
molded to submission, this game that becomes detrimental; but hell to facts, as
in love with grace, to seek by chance that immortal face: those velvet tulips;
that violet silence; our days shifting through attractions; to find for Love,
this vision of bars, while seeking by lance that intricate scar.
