I
see trefoil eyes, by a trefoil soul, imprisoned by love. I see hectic emotion, raffled to chaos,
sipping for popping with courage; that faraway dream, captured in senseless
moments, to flail wrists as crying for mercy: by inner sickness, this marvelous
kiss, as a countenance sheds—this other-world, this sky-born movie, our inner
cinemas clashing—to love by virtues, this dragoness soul, while dragging our
knuckles: such as motion, or more a platypus, while intoxicated by cartoons:
those intricate images, this dying in segments, our thoughts becoming
invincible. We become vampires that electric alpha forced to
revitalize essence; this tragedy as beauty; this traverse as wilderness; such within to become an outer torpedo. I see
presence, this mind curving particles, our souls at cadence: our inner
meadows our brooks with wine or more our classical miseries; as graphed
in blueprints this trail as
exploited while one watches by tugging
inner pegs; that cry from heaven, as purely scientific, while others focus on
neuroses. I sing in silence, revved
as cosmos, that sudden instance with budding: those tulip scars; that tragic
excitement; where keenness senses imbalance: our equal minds, fraught by
inequality, fuming for dying our holy cloth; where daughters watch to witness adults that wondering of spiked temperaments: if
but to perish, as baptized at church, our intricacies perceiving a blue fox. I see beauty, this trite expression, for
what constitutes beauty—to say it at wants, as if most witted, while one hunches their shoulders; so more to clarity,
that fiery smile, as dying his life—where gestures are conscientious, while to
proffer a kiss, where advancement leads to sudden withdrawal: that cagey
beautification, as gardenias admire, such precision while feeling lonely: that
type of flats; that smile as parted with reluctance; insofar, as terror, this
mystic dwelling, as if such by words constitute as love—this fabulous
waterfall, so fabulous it hurts, so fabulous we perish—as prime example, this
forest as difference, that something adorning your soul: that inner essence,
as typed upon auras, while calligraphy is running ramped. I never could, as to witness this truth, a
man a bit concerned with status; that radical confession, to feel it at certain
points, as to realize we specialize in issuing discomforts: that breath your
song; those delicate wrists; that neckline hidden in mane—our country habits,
as disguised with stealth, where miracles trickle from your vocals. I sense worry, as such a device, while
traffic is at an impasse; that mile to justice; that daughter to happenstance;
our mothers a smidgen too spiteful—where souls cringe, as coming to life, such
magical resistance—to build a muscle, at such repetition, while to wander
through memories. I return to life,
such words as senseless, to imagine our vestibules: feelings as geckoes;
emotions as peacocks; our intellect as signposts—insofar, a scream, this tailed
deer, our souls inverted—as furious pains, engrained in adolescence, this space
where analyses percolates: if but a fire
to remember through you while
so distant from self-inquiry: this place in minds as more a scraping to find with time our mirrors.
