We adore
excitement something by joys to aches our bleeding condition: by inner rails, as
love would live, those mysterious bulbs—as eyes flurry, too fair too wise,
engrained in synaptic(s): that furious courage our allergies so brave that cellar by stellar heart-flutes where something dies this deceptive self as something is reborn: that age before
time, while impossible purely, to exaggerate by fires: those nocturne flowers,
that symphony smile, that softness as sickness: such wonder to passion a mural embedded in diamonds to laud atop a feeling; this killing
fortress so surreal those eyes that turquoise temperament where nothing cries unless by deaths such pity for cache warriors: this blended
diary that favor a chaplet screaming our mornings embalmed with herbs; insomuch
to live, to hold a bare palm, by fasting our stomachs growling. Those ambiguous tears they tore asunder this precious heartbeat: our carpet to
witness as pounded with passion while ambrosia trickled: that tyrant fire,
as pure a saint, this dearth as filled by fullness to measure by thermostat this inner tornado so infused to disabuse psychical insights;
those effluent traumas, that effulgent glow, our eulogies as esoteric terrors;
to love by face, to feel by arcs, to engender reluctantly: those dimples
speaking;
that
person winking;
our
souls to writhe through personas—
where trenches wheeze, as weaving our lungs, by costumes we become
philanthropists; indeed, to live a
piccolo to serenade but Love is far too
academic; whereto, this particle
trickling, to remember his pain, where thunderstorms swarmed: that ego
collage those aesthetic colors those concepts a pair of columns as love would flame such qualified themes our schematics as scientific— to perish while breathing, our lines
eternal, our tones by forms as pure
allergies; wherewith, that mental shadow, that steep contrast, this wrestling
by human eclectics; as could that texture, but refusing that measure, where
passion becomes a genre: that delirious poet; that furious mystic; that
immortal train of thought; to have come through time, so conscious a fever, an
opaque idol;
while
love deludes
this
space in heartcaves
our camps aflame by
pastels: in truth, to love, this vignette woman, aborted as passing breath.
