It rains, Love according to an avalanche the greatness of feelings; as morbid
souls, or glorious love, this person those ceilings—as cried our essence, so
blank a glance, seated at whispers that ghostly psych; to die with justice,
this contrary feeling, as killing his portions; where mother sighs, as laughing
in angst, while born a Christian kiss: this rich infusion aborted to kindness those vague instruments: that trickle of
science to jog his faith as returning to that furious fire: those
dreams as delivered anxiety close to dungeons trekking through caves:
that furious lance as pierced our
guts our fathers horrid by manners:
those shifts to heaven this zealot of
cries our purpose etched in seams. I ache a swan, for feelings by rain, to
have said so much; where anger relies on honesty, while intricate that
passage—to kill his soul, while bathed in agreements—That man is disobedient; indeed to tortures, as lives our guts, to
topple into a van of soldiers: that delirious mischief, so young a pistol, at
scars pleading mother’s innocence—at sights to damage, those comatose years,
our abandonments seated closely—as cruel deliberately to sense discomfort while vexing for some purpose by control—notwithstanding,
wrongness, as never by feelings,
while vying for control: this lethal artistry, as casual fools, where a son
grieves by ways of silence: that furious heartbreak, as never to reasoning, as behaving in accordance
with travesties: those set of norms, while
seeping into mania, our psychs a bit oblivious: that death he cried; our
grandparents fruitless; this passing of nonchalance: to know by tyranny, this
unrequited justice, our eyes to hells pleading her palm: that destructive
pastime; that joy by lethal scales; to shift roots in sudden an instance. I love a swan, to our deep departure,
while sighted eyes see sincerity: that mystic bleeding; that woman at joys;
that pagan accustomed to pleasures—this living passion, to die filled with
experience, as to live dispersed in travesties: those absent years, while
images become ghosts, where we hear, I
did my best; this tragic reasoning, to offset discomfort, as essentially, You must adjust; by which, we churn,
racing to get away, while a group pardons our insanity: that hectic cloud; that
runway of demons; that Prada concealment.
It rains, Love as forced to wade
waters that terrific testimony—as
living through sickness, perceived as odd, while hell constructs a mental
palace: that ache to brains, so profound a dungeon, while drugs destroys our
hearts—this killing of self, if but to live, this oxymoronic nightmare—as
cursed a soul, those passing(s) through generations—Unto those that hate me! It
rains, Love our mothers
heartsores our fathers dementia: as
supplied a new father, or captivated a best friend, those that agree in
harmony—this ubiquitous opinion, as never by challenge, three paces from our
destiny: that cold explosion, as fueled by deposits, this tendency to ignore so
much: those beige rivers; as indecisive a soul, to hold for gold as so easily
given—this sin of minds, to accurse justice, as slamming immortal gavels; to
meet a kindred, so afar his brain, while too confident to utter, We love you: in truth, a magnet, to ache
by rainstorms, while strength is more profound—to become this something, as a
dream to a gladiator, while fraught with fears; where father appears, as mere
vibration, to ask that question, Why do
You visit me? By passions,
Love this miracle of events as children a product of
experience—insofar, to live, insofar, to perish, insofar, to love—as,
nevertheless, this identification, while asearch for identity, where color is
lacking; that chance to witness, the beauty of inheritance, as opposed to a
plethora of schisms; where humans are just, as afforded kindness, despite
infractions; such is idealism such is
fire-skies such is sensations, where
life is pure, as opposed to hatred, while your eyes shall miss intentions.
