I
put prophets aside, to ponder your depth, as eloping with abysses—this fragile
aching, such pain to brides, so silent addicted to our chatter; this miracle
birth, at church with vengeance, a tare towards warpism. I admire shrines, detached from emotions,
while stranded at feelings: this sensitive man, aching by tears, to regroup
sprawling through shift-waves: that beige endeavor, to over-think life, while
nudged a turn to outwit proclivities: this raging storm; this slight nuisance;
our casualties at sacrifices within—to see by faces, this love for humans,
while averted by behaviors. I’m
reading poetry, immersed in psychology, affected by therapeutics—as barely a
glimpse, where Mickey Mouse dies, as, nevertheless, this fantasy encouraging
flights: our cyan skies; our turquoise emeralds; our phallic imageries: while
jumping trains, this infinite voyage, feeling our deaths while boxed in pits:
those tears laughing; our souls emerging; such by fire an abstract occurrence. I saw a smile, by craft those years, by
measure a substance—where diamonds would cherish, as melting into liquids,
unaccustomed to maniacal rivers—that green algae, that silent whale, that
family platypus; indeed, to depths, while chosen to suffer, this life void of a
permanent feeling; insomuch, to exult, this cage of fluidity, where rhythm
becomes expression—this achy sensation, to sense such beauty, this man at ease
with boundaries—as pure neglect, or perfected composure, where one becomes
offended; this curvature riddle, as experienced with time, as evermore this
need to project; while more rejection, this village of leverage, where another
carries our misery; indeed, to bars, while affected by joy, to surf this web of
stoic glee; that portal shifting, while died a soul, as resurrected a child at
forgiveness. I don’t forsake, at
practice to forgive, where distance provides complaisance; this eerie monster,
where minds are alert, but something fails to fly; or more to families, this
soul at children, as giving more than one has ever received—: concerned with
errors; perfecting language; our dinner table every night by six—this ache for
values, as cries our courage, afforded three breaths: that one existence; that
other seeking; that third to finding with vengeance: if but to fly, embedded that
vex of grains, affectionate but found adrift. [I feel us spinning, lodged in cocoons, bombarded
by plethora advice; this itchy irritation, while distinguished as different,
where presence becomes by faculties: that grievous rotation; that love for
honor; such respect for our founding homes: this place near hearts, that heel
as discomfort, that session of breaking free; as gave us life, this terrifying
beauty, while fretted by this edgy nervousness: those jasper ears; that jasmine
toe; our jousting to live as normal; this place in minds, to give but life,
where music seeps into existence; as more a soul, to embrace fury, as granted
three wishes].
