Swan Eyes

At music, Love—this extensive journey, at terrors our heart-pressure—while puffing cloves, or sipping liquor, this paradox of clarity—our rooted temperaments, that classic abstraction, those cute bunny ears—as lives a fool, those feral insights, too calm to settle at wisdom—this plank of footprints, as aching his soul-scar, by paths peering at an elegant gem: those beige visions, at leaps a volt, to pass for comforts this terrible dysfunction; as steeped in caricatures, or mowed as blue grass, to become a seedless life. We cringe to feel it, or die to harvest it, this angst permeated with diamonds: invested in swans, those two to dreams, as occasioned mother’s mind-scents: that deep congestion, as outlived by substance, while sobriety returns us to squares—that catchy heart, as swayed by emotion, while fretting to grip permanence—that feeling of joy, as to watch it pass, while returning to that meditative gaze: if be it our lives, accustomed to traumas, or torn that escapist mentality; where songs are tears, as tears are years, where another is held accountable. (We come to life, at dear a memory, feeling angry remorse. We come to passions, cleaving for justice, while reminded of inclinations; that fabulous death, as reaching within, to drive a warrior into contemplation; as void of resentment, if be it to dream, a bit too effective for onlookers). We’ve parted skies, our invisible textures, at burgundy shivers—those inner segments, to shift as sagacious, where rivalries become fly-prints. It comes with pain, feeling free to think, as engaged in ontic freedom; that existential, as pure experience, while avoiding tenor conjecture: this place of misery as fraught with joys—our paradoxical truths; or splashed with oxy, an atom to metamorphosize, while becoming this adjusted personality: that hectic light, to realize self, as reflected in a sudden instant—where bars become liquids, as liquids become air, where air becomes angels: if life to scars, than scars to wings, our passions carrying substance; as tensed a fashion, this knitting of garments, to arrive at knuckle cramps: those curious feelings, as becoming in-tuned, while realizing a certain sophistication; as dead to pain, while alive at pain—this oxymoron; to align a thought, walking our wires, to realize certain patterns: that inner scale, as weighing behaviors, to sense that something doesn’t speak—as should our minds, depicted by countenance, where energy wars ensue with time: that furious train, as courage our minds, to expect that presence with time: this furious mishap, as centered in thoughts, to realize that one is disappointed with self: if life to memories, our aches as trophies, while flame soars our voices: that thetic heartbeat, to know by texture, as alive too much to see.