I’ll Never Remember: as Pure Contradiction: Therefore, as Pure Trauma

I feel confused, as nearly comatose, where screams wailed out, God: this feverish woman, our candent cries, as becoming our horror contusions.     It was horrid colors, as abrasive matrimonies, our paradox, our candescent illusion—where gramps cried, as filled this music, while granny strayed from delusion.  I died to seas, as promiscuous bees, while hope punctured membranes; as beauty was foreign, this cagey widow, at tyranny with reflection—our broken dishes, that bleeding freezer, this living-room sprawled with groceries—that man as knights, to thrust while leaving, this deep concern of seeing traces; as, nevertheless, this impure vengeance, where naivety courted a vacant friend: those lovers by trails, our brilliance to curtains, this soul to harvest a crush—as shattered asunder, that motel illusion, where ghosts affronted said soul.

I loved a vision: I adore our child: I had to confess that I knew your name: this passion of fools; as drooled a crocodile; by face this alligator, a tare allergic to those mystics.

It was oven-city, this chamber of gas, our adventured Holocaust; but never a sound, or never apologies, just more to kissing buttocks; while men would die, as women perished, this cadence as more delusion. I saw your face, discolored in gravy, while relishing in such disgrace—this paranoid soul, buffed with Scotch-Brite, to redeem returning to snail-paste.

We die laughing, at tyranny our reflections, while said laughter becomes inverted: this kosher looseness; that vibrant loser; our seed to flights by saving face; where anger is supreme, as if filled by innocence, while brooks sway in your favor: as, Woe my soul, this birth-born dove, where unsaid souls have ruined the Lord’s mansion.

It comes to deaths, while holding contempt—I’ll never let go of reality: this spacial queen, at tides with oceans, this living Proverb.

I’ve wiped my mouth     the dining room is set     I’ll love at hopes for redemption;

but this is atrocious, this fume in souls, while mirrors break our courage; as if to breathe, this guilt of frenzies, while attitude becomes this fiery fortress.

I loved depression     as most to die     where said dejection grows intrepid—this furious fire, while father divorces—any notion of foul delusions: this miracle current, that woman that died, this turn of events leaving to return—where daughters flee, this wealth of truths, while craving a said illusion; but hell to truths, where Love seeks purpose, our years debating reality.