By Pleasures To Fly

We miracle lights, to sense our texture, evolved in passions: that neckline trauma; those legs as majesty; this heart torn by nuances; to live forever, this immortal slant, to realize by daughters—this field bleeding, our genetics ruined, that voice balanced in sulfur; to courage our aches, while bestial a dream, to maneuver a montage of feelings; indeed, I see, this mixture of measures, to fathom with minds lost to arcs: this furious delivery, to sense that tear, as adjusted through ethics: this cagey woman; this flower as sky-leafs; our today(s) a bit enchanting; where anger simmers, as stews percolate, while illness becomes appealing; this injurious fire, as far too many languages, that resume bleeding divinity; as told to perish, at wars our rebirths, to chisel this inveterate distance—to love by grit, while silenced to bones, where spouses irritate our loyalties: this fractured brilliance; that brain’s extravagance; this luxury feeling loneness; to kiss a frog, at braces for healing, where colleagues bat a winking eye.     Instead to purpose, this arena of souls, to find with traffic this impasse—insomuch, to death, this proud soldier, a bit too resilient for instruction; but fathom life, that hardcore mother, imbuing her son with treasures—as lived his soul, a dead-man breathing, to come to know-how a bit too early: that terrible woman, to cut his lungs, seated with lovers as high as laughter that fabulous treachery, as exposed his arteries, while daughters pray for a safe recovery: if but to live, as singing your glory, I’ll die a man too exposed to machination: that treble ache, as kissed a cypress, where said mystics buffered survival: if but to carry, this feverish woman, while at love a different return. It comes to tyranny, this music bleeding, our mahogany trefoils—this clove sparked, our hearts dark, this murky but pensive lagoon—to enter by course, at love by moments, to suddenly disappear: this inner feeling, as never his kind, while at love this fabulous fracture; where mother warns, as grandparents dance, this feeling, at once, with ghosts; to see us grinning, while filled with sorrow, this hope for our glorious tomorrow—that edgy daughter, that cliff for mothers, that terrific step-father—to hate this curse, while warranted to perish, but hopeful towards justice. I feel a mistake; I chime a river; I sized our brooks; to know that mother, a lady of tresses, to passion a tsunami; that languishing grandma, those languishing realities, that hurtful dissatisfaction; but more to psychs, as lived this life, a bit too concerned with wars—as lives a casualty, to become a triumph, those days to honor built upon shame.     I flurry with pressures, typing as to perish, enlove with this merry-go-round—as feeling your brains, that abstract sentence, to know for this certain type of death; to fury majesty, this trickle of spirits, that daughter alive a heart-dungeon; where mothers laugh, as too cold a season, to dwell in private leviathans; at pressures, this mystic, sensing this deep reality, while at hearts a friend: if but to surf, accused with breath, too steep in theology: that finicky marathon, as repeating dogma, while heresy comes with thought abroad this box: those porcelain chimes; that flimsy carpet; this rajah fleeing for barking at invisible visions; insomuch, to live, as grafted in science, this religious atheist; insofar, at jest, to reckon this soul, as to desire a naked catastrophe; where fathers grin, while sipping meadows, a bit too emphatic with silence: our soliloquy bleeding; our wives coddling; our hearts in souls a bit too weary; but life to bones, as prophecy to hearts, this world fraught with poets; as told his throat, at treachery with life, our wills enchanted.     It could to die, as never it lived, this infamous shrine: his ears aching; his hips damaged; our eyes remorseful—as to fix an illness, while incurring an illness, where said illness destroys our fixings.