I’m
deep to fantasy elusive by
cadence sudden a cautious thump; such
cryptic music, by feathers our souls, peering at daughter legacies; this crying
wolf, that inner coyote, our theologies battered by morals: if but sensations,
as divorced of desires, I’d fly aloof to treasures; where hearts laugh, as
infused by fire, this overwhelming familiarity. I clash abroad, at volts to Africa,
leering but tortures at Latin lusts—this bakery soul, fluffing our dough, too
enchanted to ache through niceties: as argues canines, or rages chimpanzees,
our essence inflamed with promise—this terrific soul-pain, as more to
brain-chains, as upfront as panicky sea lions: our coils slanted, at tears for
concerns, a bit offended where attention flourishes: that steep control, as
laughs our favor, while torments break satin pillows. I’d ache to love if love thrusts purple as mourns our souls that trepid daughter:
our tepid encounters, that Brazilin minx, our terrors flowered through that
Asian lawyer—if but to die, affected through chaos, a bit so effective by
hatred; those Indian chants, that yogic instructor, our perils to sailors as
non-existent—where money bleeds, as diamonds torture, while jewels lament—that
terrible concern, as becoming myth, while hearts are at cadent cliffs: this
leaping sadness, our internal war, where passions exult this common religion:
if but to hearts, those glossy eyes, changed by admiration: this Rihanna fever,
where none might fathom, this rift in souls as forever detached—that welkin
mystic, that leprechaun psych, as life by therapeutic motives—that gentle
wiccan, this tragic warlock, that psychologist bleeding madness: if but to
live, such terrible magic, such pagans ramped through Jerusalem—as captured
that Light, or infused that Darkness, as both to whales this hectic
discipline—our disciple cults, as occults at honor, while mind-control distorts
this inner cathedral: as but neuroses, while anxious a certain thread, as each
possesses a similar cadence—those subtle nuances, that tickle by clouds, this
falling while white rocks rattle—in turn to perish, a preacher beneath his
pulpit, a doctor confronted by otherworldliness—where mystics shutter, as to
shiver silence, where trembling becomes this appropriated signal—that achy passion,
that laughing professor, those signs as symbols of therapy: that conscious
jest; that slight churn by necks; that placement of feet—as torn to mystery,
this esthetic psychology, our treasures becoming neurotic: by pure features, to
know by powers, this thinking agent at hearts abroad—to silence intentions,
while awakened to madness, this spirit leaps by faces—that deep inversion, our
minds at souls, this place in self as demented reality—that casual whisper,
that terrible tremble, this person soaring through energy: to speak this
language, this inner person, while souls are afraid of existing as
brokenness. I sense by kindred(s),
our mutual existence, this steep concern with vetting this cryptic reality:
that thump that waits, those persons our consciousness, this link at travels by
zenic laws: that sudden shift, as to have been by joys, while sudden to knees
feeling agony: if but such music as
dying its course to return to spaces
prior to wombs: this edgy emotion, to thrust while astride, where hearts thump
at sudden responses; to love through churns
so steep this purpose as
mentioned a though that cultic queen.
I
felt a fireball this event by
passions at once fraught by fears; this cordial monster, as
effects our energies, while terror to arcs that flame: if but to actions, this
electric yogi, by cries reaching through mystic cisterns; as individuals, this
chess by wars, to thump by remembrance; as lakes to brains, or brains to souls,
this fever as born casual allies—those glacier events, seated in warm lagoons,
while at purpose to uproot those false impressions—if but receptive, as leaping
through comets, by ashes to redeem this immortal sequence.
