We
up-pour, murmuring legacies, seeking discreet council: that bag of failures,
adjusted by hopes and dreams, our cadence with para-realities—this mental sky,
our wintry larks, this cat with a dragon’s brains—as nails to wood, at flux to
care, where emotion unbolts serenity; that cry to oceans, seasoned through
traumas, syndicated by tragic uprisings—that core to fields, aloof by
compassion, sectioned at those tales of abrasions: this critical crises, where
love is unwanted, while one scurries through intimate reflections: our castles
bleeding; our analysis with patience; this thin film alienating logistics—that
fine thread, as elastic motives, at desires for souls unaddressed: this inner
antic, so graphic by scars, becoming by an uncanny product.
{I
see you, Love; so brave a vision, adrift an inner prism—those tender thoughts,
as alive-dreaming, frantic to succeed; that driven axis, this fulcrum of minds,
our inner interviews—where silence fuses, as focused by motion, while openness
wins hearts: this frightened intimacy; our cages singing; this feeling by
whiffs of flowers: indeed, to seasons, this flux of pressures, to exhaust
spiritual frequencies. Our mothers
anxious; afforded a scream; where granny nudges through kindness: our
psychological(s); our epistemic(s); our flow through sky-nature}. I’m at variances, Love; that need to evoke,
where angst speaks to persistent waters—that shift by tugs; that gradual
deterioration; our baseboards eroding—where vexation laughs, as mental
wreckage, this rivalry by inner-council;—as jazz blazes, and parents reminisce,
while elders plant seeds—insofar, occasioned by whispers, as urged to speak,
our nine year olds fraught by wisdom.
We
harvest parallels, seated aglow, fevered within—this purchase by disciplines,
that wafting sky, this remote empty of buttons—as pushing frantically, invested
in unreality, while forbade’n council: that mincing of abrasions; that tension
bursting pipes; this singleness by perfections; notwithstanding, those chimes
as whistles, our destinies constructed, our wishful thoughts pegged by
determination—to chase insistence, as investigating motives, where gristle
becomes steel—or perish, those highlighted appeasements, where operas fail to
illuminate.
Our
tragic rails, trekking to perfection, afforded a flurry of fabulous fixtures:
that steep contentment; that reaching as reaching back; those skies as livid
your skies—where poodles fawn, as cats decorate, at terrors to find this steep
comfort; indeed, aloft a terror-blind, as sighted an infant, or more this
determination to vet a fancy; while, nevertheless, muscles are churned, earth
has sung, and reality disgusts that faintest of hearts—as climbing leverages,
while seeking figs, to come with art that tender conclusion. Our perfections crying; our algorithms
deluding perceptions; this furious flower too fragrant for failure!
I
drift currents, astray at times, a bit agitated with life—this bold adventure,
attempting at patience, even through guidance: this anxious person, imposed
upon by composure, at desires to re-construct his motives: this changing of
souls, tears to emptiness, while carving luxuries: that inner image, as giving
perfection, at terrible dislikes; to fret vehemently, occasioned for releases,
where such pain has brought crises such joy.
