I
hear it yelling. I see it’s angry. I lay claim to silence. This casual struggle inflated a scar by
remorse channeled to witness utter deception: if but death, I’ll flee for flying—those
arms of breath: to promote as tales,
this inner courtroom, and too many cuffs, and too many bars as blighted by deserts, that mental
tumbleweed, while assertions bare truths:
this want for rightness, to side that innocent mudslide, those mirrors
revolving and chasing this solitary
magnet, afflicted with energy, this likeness to yogis as more to flower by cactus, this fragrance
as mire, too close to pitted promises.
I held it by petals. I saw it
while dying. It becomes fragments of a lost self: that crooked nuance; that resounding laughter; as sensed in similarities: that childish glee; that ecclesial lawyer; that fitness way of crying: to die those screams, as dreamt disaster,
that benighted darkness: to claim his
heart; as torn a gesture; that inner detachment! To this end was death born a system within a frame our eyes as micro-mirrors to reflect her heart as never by face a dare too dangerous that fainted arc:
such methods, to cry his brains, as nuances inflicted wings: fire as evidence; form as resistance; development by
gages: or centered analyses or religious provisions to flicker as reflection those
impossibilities as cried a soul,
flitting towards affliction, to pour his heart into concrete where earth would cringe, humility as cadence,
a man pleading his condition. I saw it dying such terror by seasons a beehive submerging pollen: that inner
campaign; that gavel by justice; such as techniques by careers—that delicate
imprint that Grecian mind this railway of pressures as, notwithstanding, our so much as life where strangeness becomes as omens: that
old memory, as tearing his soul, to catch by glimpse a familiar countenance:
that inner everyone, conducive to floating miracles, where today is held by yesteryears. I must advance this space of healing while constructed through a new host of
vices: such measure screaming as
doubt would fly a bit too resilient
for closure—this mental graph, condemned by countenance, contemned for refusing
to perish—that grit as bleeding that
inner rebuke, I shunned a
feeling to die as living while memories flared into fireworks. This reflexive heaven as torn but breathing alive as resounding in clarity while ever we live, whereas,
we cherish, this space in arts
as convoluted: an innocent clove; that coughing of lungs; our textures to
evaporate: that promise to reside, as
mere a moment, while conflicted by emotion: as lives disgrace, effacing our
names, so to galaxies a bit brainy; thereto,
this amazing intermission
where angles shift angels
while seraphim(s) explode into insights; but this is war, this pushing
through puzzles, as becoming a length apathetic—as never to humans, but more to
humans, while maintained in contradiction.
