May I fawn?

To have but feelings, at courage to evolve, our parents pointing by focal lights; this misread psych, this mis-wounded professor, our larks bleeding frustration—as feeling currents, abreast glorious thighs, to enter with sheer glory: that inner misprint, those elaborate calves, this cousin fractioned through chaos: if but to breathe, as infused at terrors, this wonderful catastrophe; therewith, a scar, to scratch as wildness, to bite at trickling blood—where buttocks clench, as wombs scream, this clutching for yanking extremes.  We torture innocence, this line to brains, our personalities winking—to culture survival, as losing air-caves, to grip for dying this immortal lady-fly: that achy cadence; those aesthetic hips; by ankles to rapture life.  I could to perish, our faces by buffets, as torn but parts to confetti—where mother laughs, to witness experience, to ask a charming question.  Its graves to souls, at rumors her stomach, fraught with nonchalance: that cagey vixen, this professional Sensei, our glamour confounded with circumstance—as fleeing into battle, this pyrrhic victory, a tare to gaze by breasts—those perfected gems, as torn to facials, while gods plunder for advice—as tore by vengeance, to explore early, at tears to rekindle a hour’s endeavor.  I cross waves, split to shreds, at cornflakes a bit to pouting; as cried our fruits, to beckon by witness, as kissed while torn for closure—this inner wandering, this orchard bleeding, our neighbors at crucial inter-points.  I arrive at necks, this elongated territory, while nibbling for refusing rejection—as silent a thought, a tare to cadence, to sit puffing a clove: that feeling dying, this want craving, our experience as far too refuted—where marsh is madness, as math is pleading, our strange encounters.  I’ve loved patience, to arrive at terrors, while begging forgiveness: this man of freedoms, at wants for power, to evolve a bit too early; indeed, a tragic calling, peering at rounded faces, a tare struck by cheekbones; to muse upon eyebrows, at twain jointed effects, to stare with glamour that high brain-line—where mane flourishes, as reaching midpoints, our laughs while admiring aesthetics.  It could for toes, those appendages laughing, our passions becoming kinky: if told to die, we oblige with grace, while songs sing us asunder: that gradual appeal, to seethe for dying, where mystics await that finale.  I’m at a myth, to kiss for passion, while attracted to danger: those Malibu cliffs; that Alaska city; this field trekking Africa—as blinking disaster, while at woes to treasure, where youth is speaking ghostly: that insidious grime, as perfected cadence, at once, to reconsider death—as fleeing at war, to share eternity, our promiscuous Savior.