Afloat A Blimp

I sought a flower, so exposed his dreams, as such is business—to sense a scream, as to maneuver his brains, those inner shifts—to angle with courage, this therapeutic, but so detached—to protect arcs, that drift by time, to crumble such by pains—where it feels good, to imagine as sighted, where denims tug thighs—this crying love, as infused with homes, to cringe by touch filled with excitement. I love a phantom, this delicate gem, to reverse his brains—where mothers chide, as filled realities, too familiar to play coquettish; this force in men, as alive that vixen, while at several insecurities: that fainted heart, that music matrimony, our courage fretted with thorns; to calm his mind, those hours to meditation, as to tap into your very soul: that plaintiff scar, at war with imagination, to see her that glorious frame; indeed, to manics, as afraid to glisten, while therapy becomes electric; this place of passions, to hold that palm, while so much had exuded—that dream of rudeness, to space that fire, where passions gleam in Three-D. I ache with soreness, as coursing through cygnets, those flowers at terrible frights; to become innocuous, by buried a treasure, where inward becomes an adventure—that eastern web, as opposed to worship while, nonetheless, that shivery recognition; therewith, are terrors, this powerful flower, to reach with practice to explode a vessel: this fate embedded, where professors gander, while souls feel those reading islands; whereto, my life, so disenchanted, while attempting to conceive innocence—that tender heart—those welkin limbs—this piece in self afforded one last folly: if time is good, and love is impure, as we embark towards immortal lusts. I wrangle, indeed, at love with pearls, too fabulous to see her mirror; as, yes, to fidget, those words to jest, while one realizes, We must break free; this languished soul, as tangled goals, as if life with Love remains indigenous. I nibble carrots, to fumble through grapes, blending a shake of nectarines—to see a face, as caresses his arms, staring by misery—those chimes—as acclaimed a soul, a loquat queen, sipping spirulina (brain food); this trace in minds, that supreme presence, as to wonder of affections: that strawberry shake; those fish with fries; that miracle exclaimed as a swan; hitherto, my Love—this furious feeling, as tormented into denials; where art is jasper, while rains are jasmine, this plague imploding his loins: that fabulous cry; that ache to bones; that bundle of broccoli. I love a presence, this force in webs, to meet by faces and reappear; that inner symphony, as euphonic cygnets, while a swan ponders our legacy; as more to dying, or more to living, while both are embedded in Chi.     [I dropped in water     to emerge as mud     our visions so bold that psych; while deep at mischief, this song by captures, this rug speaking softly; that terrible panic     to arrive at nonsense     while rafting for murdered life: that horrible confession, as aflame a tornado, while pensive those whining eyes; where gods are mentors, as clashing our fences, such by javelin smiles; at purpose to live, by wonders to die, this immortal woman our child—as graves topple, and tombs utter—this mystic magic at currencies.     I’ve died his life, as too advanced, peering at pimps, pushers, and priests; that game that died, leering at U Hauls, by Cajun memories: that Danish goddess; those German thighs; that shaman from Africa—at terrors, Love, that internal voice, while to monitor negative ruminations: as born bathing, while awash’d in frequencies, at levels to perish that Jewish queen—as fire kindles, this flicker to winds, racing through tabernacles—while flying forever, this second in crime, to roll, play, and tickle.     It could be life, our passions as minions, to frolic with bloodshed—that cryptic ache, to enter by stealth, where others attempted by charms—this miracle mischief, so mindful to sadness, those series of sensations: that light as reddish green, those needs for confirmations, our essence pleading for one last dance—if but to flee, as fleeing backwards, while tripping upon muddy soil—as planted a mind, at tears with tyranny, so cold those intricate barriers].