Such
casual friction, this demon of angels, our phoenix by a lion’s body—where
dreams are fiction, by realist particles, such fever to abort feelings; this
miracle drift our poke-a-dot shadows our atypical archetypes—as furious
visions, by electric volts, such language to agree, I know you; this beige certitude, as uneasy witnesses, a tale too
subjective for doubters—those green molehills, our Solomon addictions, this
pleasure indebted to capturing portraits: as lived romance, by flame aching
silence, by wires embedded elation—as curious textures, that abrasive wind,
feeling for falling through trauma: that angular lie, our palms gripping nails,
a bit strategic concerning existence: this deep absurdity, this pushing of
machinery, our mountains remaining powerful.
It could to life, our psychical horderves, at peace to rekindle
peace—that luxurious tactic, as claimed his thoughts, while one was utterly
nonchalant; this feeling of passions, by such intrusion, to realize a fading
account: this torrid agenda as horrid
emotions where pains come with
flatness; as a feeling kills, to ease but seconds, where we are addicted to
absence. [I felt sensation a tyranny
of volts at solace to ignore names;
this type for healing to enjoy
irritation as flitting thoughts: such
burgundy passions devoid of
laughter captured by this achy
seriousness: that steep travesty as
producing innocence where one is
eager to speak; indeed, our paradox, becoming our existence, to feel with pleasure
such steep discomfort—as agonizing feelings, to purpose our dens, this space in
thoughts as pure indenture: that florid picture, as conjured in visions, this
tear affording atypical joys; where mother is absent as psychs are in motion this atypical arc peering into
reality. Closure becomes
artificial this phantasmagoria while such exists as more tangible than
concrete—as pure abstracts this
furnace by refinement to find by
source our projections; to hear silence
by excellence a riddle where
brains are majestic activity: if but to deserts by a conjured oasis at once, filled with decisions—this burning
hopefulness, as acclaims a star, while jogged in essence]. I remember frustration, this cadence to
resistance, by uncanny innocence; this portal to skies, by witness to see,
where nevermore becomes an anthem; as killed our souls, a soul purchased by
agonies, at joys our indebted careers; as never a call, or ever an email, while
souls are at peace.
[I see fire, as
explosive cadence, some remarkable passions—as cried his life, this vengeance
by chasing, to meet by flame a liquid arc: if but to fuel, as afflicted softly,
this turn through woods peering at cobras—that light flicker, our blue
insanity, our red casualties—this carnage of fury, as lived by temperaments, so
silent it becomes inverted—that introspection, as furious deserts, while
extroverts wrestle with anguish—to keep our minds, as framed in sanity, while
something feels askew—that achy brain, those livid cries, our nights to tossing
pillows. I see but feelings, agreed
as pure pleasure, a tear to fall as one smiles—our cyan caves, as gray with
confetti, our churning through armoires: that casual flippantness, as casual
agony, this crane as becoming lighter—if but that moment, as spoken too soon,
where floods undergirt our inner theatre.
It comes to life, this steep emotion, while fleeing for crying into
portals—our mental locusts, our fretted linguini, that bottle awaiting our
weekend tyranny—if but to shake it, if but a moment, we return to havoc—where
trauma appears, as pleading address, this need to eradicate promise].
