At
intellectual rehab, those scars grieving, our souls to bleeding—as cursed a
heart-pulse, to feel by channels, as one resists—this pilgrim thrive, as torn
for cultures, afforded this last dance—where mother’s hesitant, as father’s
suspicious, while a psych pushes at buttons—to dove a secret, or secrete a
spirit, while we soar at pretenses; to lie by covers, our daughters to warfare,
our flesh itchy and swollen; insofar, a dream, our classifications, to ponder
submarines, as effective this sprawled catastrophe; while never it would, but
tortures to graves, as invested in pure satisfaction: such tender thunder—to
fix a statue, while tugging through wars—to greet her goddess, as feelings
arise, while too empathetic with pains: our deaths to lights, as furious that
complexion, while hidden from sunlight; where mother appears, as aunty
defends—this portal adrift through times: our blotted faces, as pure
leviathans, or more this fiery dragoness. It became realism, faced in
expressionism, at treasured concerns this terror of isms; as never a soul, of
worth to gold, while fleeing through our lower regions; to afford a feeling,
while that culture breathes, our daughters stuck at survival: that explosive
ankh; that torrid congestion; our faces to northern winds—while insecure chases, at hopes that
redemption, while treated as sludge. We could to magnets, that man in his
arena, while another pretends for first-place…but hell to passions, clashing
for falling, at waves to exhaust a terrible pash—that craving bleeding, our
roses asthmatic, such as prose suffering that doting spine—insomuch, to perish,
as embarrassed by love, this obscure feeling arriving at desolation; indeed,
our reckless nights, to awaken at sobriety, while popping fiercely a fist of
illnesses; as something beautiful, those immortal sprinkles, while a fantast
forgets that humans are instinctive—this cold embrace, as faced with doubts, by
charges a morbid soul; as death would imbue us, our screams to climaxes, those
passions aborted for love—where he stands, at full appeals, a lawyer by brains.
It can’t to chance, albeit, as shared, where such plurals arrange self as
singular entities; so life to abortions, this harvested self, while gelid a
river, forsaken to brooks: those soft petals, as crazed a session, while
composed too much to avert—that scandal of brains, this misprint in science,
our aches to warm illusions; where others watch, while sensing heart-webs, as
occasioned to flee through caves…those gravid ashes, that terrible comment,
this fire as dormant a heart-escape—where thoughts are graphic, as imposing
through absence, while a fool sits in utter darkness: that manipulation, as too
keen for defeats, while senseless at sensations wages wars; that pitted
feeling, while tugged asunder, a bit too intricate for pleading pardons.
