We
argue grass, this pink endeavor, to wrestle with man-life: that effort
bleeding those feelings
shivering that deathless jungle where ours is dying as filing our flame this auspice claiming attraction as symbols cringe, so alive a nightmare,
while evolved in silent gazes— to
love by essence, a sign to dungeons, this myth as mystic cadence. I’m angst’d, a token to racists, a measure
as pure that flurry to ignite
richness, as floored oasis, this misty soul sweltering as cried this fever, too in-tuned a
heartbeat, to love you evermore but
trails endeavor, this sphinx of omens, our brains loosing composure where visions cloud, this welkin scar, as
enchanted that silent winter. We die
to feelings as arriving at
satisfaction musing through timbal
that life-ache insomuch, as
pressure that suture unraveled our wimble to midnights that fatal upsurge, to touch as dying,
that treasure beyond rubrics to
assist our lives why crazed by lectures to hold to such composure: that flailing
energy those reaching eyes that perfect feeling while dying as husbands to wives, or pastel grays,
that overseer sensing something’s troublesome: that silver shadow that crypt as dreaming your
soul as convoluting unsaid affections
therewith, a tragedy, that child agaze, our drumbeat as downtrodden as never for pain, or ever as rain, while
clogged and congested. I told Jesus, I want this woman, where hell reared its
ugliness; to ask forgiveness, as never aware, this capture as pure insanity:
that canyon wailing those ceilings
explosive our charm as measured
against varieties; indeed, to painting, alive through brooks, our meadows
cleaving to affections; this chemic spirit, our conscious pangs, while to enter
by womb and crying. It comes with
deaths, as to live resurrection, that public aspect; where love would flourish,
those deserts aback our minds, as nevermore this craving; to chant by
sky-glints, this private affair, our contrite love; in dire segments our mysterious darlings as never to abort your flame. Such denim tightness that tender gothic as said amore becomes an eagle; to soar
with pain, as crying betrayal, while dead to self for skipping projections: as
could to die; or safe to live; while roamed by twain affairs: that musical
poet; that lyrical father; our days to grays and dearly insane; where life’s
ambivalent, to want this fever, while exclusivity would ruin such elation; in
depth to flourish that rapturous
dungeon such as fervor reloading our
loins. I love this feeling, as given
by justice, to die this eclectic distance: this fervid grin, as upon that
appearance, such ardent treachery— this life as ruined, to compose by clarinets,
as adjusted to fly by mystics; but truth to spaces, that tragic wildfire, as to
live a bit bored— this angst in souls, to explode a feeling, while destined for
that exact death; so more to home, as living aflame, and born to fly.
