I
die to you, as involved with you, while too aloof to love you—this feeling as
cringing, our remote reality, where it feels pain to evolve through you. I held
cygnets, this blank delusion, a man retyping sentences—to capture existence,
that indecision, as scraped asunder claiming love—to voice as heartbeats, this
craving sensation, where Love rescues this fleeing frenzy. It could for life,
those wings as effective, where tomorrow awakens purest honesties—but this is fancy,
our remote islands, as was said our purest infusions; this tale of dying, that
song of living, our deepest exiles.
I
can’t capture it, the above as stated, for something dies with presence—this
furious frenzy, our curious matrimonies, this dowry wrapped in psychoses—where
mothers perish, as sons flourish, while fathers die to liquor: this fabulous
feeling, as encased in tragedies, while at terrors to love but distance: that
cagey art, those psychic chains, that overseer to reckon consciousness: if but
to perish, as too many seeds, where psychologists abort his brains: that
Buddhist woman, those Zenists claims, as exclaimed this fury of
temperaments. I triggered a button,
as but appeals, to ask of this future where disease is fawning; that grave
adventure, to reckon that feeling, while at treasures to expose certain
faces. I could to retreat, as an
exile in turmoil, where features resolve an unending trespass; as more to passions,
where tetras is life—this game of reality.
I
feel distraction, to wonder for repeats, while an audience is musing—this
feature in brains, as bypassing reality, where moments predict a foolish poet;
that kef as cycles, those yarns as lethal, this place in psyches as disrupting
a normal course; but hell to dying, while others feel ecstatic, in turn, this
deep dejection: those furious sessions, where Love is panting, while every
sensation ripples through my bones; or more to deaths, as embracing a stranger,
where minds coalesce.
We laugh to read it, that something so simple,
where this foolish art immerges; but this is feelings, this space of souls,
where cygnets gain control: that deep decision, as upon a heartbeat, to decide
if tales will excel: those shivering knees, to unlock with essence, while
energy enters: as life to doubts, while Love exudes—this ace in arts too
evolved.
I
must return, at presence—this sentiment—where essence becomes a Bastille: that
casual ache, to resume to faces, by chance to have a fleeting
excitement—insofar, as feelings, this poet as a dream, while dreams are
embedded in your soul: that drastic carnage, those exclusive eyes, that pilgrim
dancing to see your desert—in such to perish, for life has sewn—this tear in
death as deeply exposed.
