What
for lies, this feeling unreal, to chase at pace with lionesses—this small
vessel, as molehill madness, as maniac simplicity—to courage this storm, while
infused by charm, at analytical arms: this treacherous melody; this calm chaos;
this system distorted by straight lines—as cold his river, to bathe as freely,
while freedom becomes cuffed: this inner woman, this fragile man, those tears
as reaching his guts—to sudden a puddle, as carved from wounds, to evoke Bhakti
passions:
that steep devotion, as cut,
bleeding bibles—affected for demented, too sane for converse,
as never before, rattling ghostly
chains—that marvelous torture, those bulbous cries, our
innards, revved, this cagey
trespass—as feeling malaise, this subtle anxiety, racing
through profiles—as livid terrors,
to escape, sipping, while our phoenix mourns—this
terrific
mercenary, at full autonomy, our skulls mincing manure—as fertile land, our
caves weaving, our miracles slithering by honesty: that inner cord, to afford
those waves, our cultic dance; where love soared, as dancing through tsunamis,
this raging sea—at pleas, Poseidon, at rills, Jesus, at confusion, Our Ghost—to
floor faces, this bathing in dusts, this inner bedbug—that infestation,
Isaiah’s pus, or Jeremiah’s clinical depression—to crystal lungs, roaring with
vengeance, at mercies that humble pie:
where mother
reels, as hooked with deaths, this traveling through memories—that woman
bleeding, as paved to dusks, while swooping into air-fire—as caged eternal, to
break one link, as shattered—for falling into dungeons—that unyielding love,
that sworn repentance, our music rejecting this pace of closeness—while ever by
closure, to believe unremitted thoughts, where pushing becomes shoving—this
tour by nights, our muscles
to
spasms. [Dreams are singing, some sort
of flower, to cross paths choking words: that inner venom, or sheer relaxation,
or something that voice of traumas: those agony-wings, as left with sorrow,
while tugging for running a billions eyes: that inner renegade, that humble
mother, that drained physicist—as behaved a soul, at tensions this life,
somewhere a jasmine crush—where pelicans speak, and fireflies wrangle, while
eagles flip through clouds—that passion, our minds, as cursed this drizzle,
while tiles become vocal: to cringe a feeling, while to cherish said feeling,
insomuch, as confused]:
that trenchant
pinch, this mental modality, our sensorium haywire—as plunged her soul, our
minds adrift, to come to spheres refusing acknowledgments: that terrible
beauty, as felt a genius, too wise for mere overtures: that soul-cadenza, that
eye’s aria, this credenza harboring pressures—if but to live, as never he
thought, this inner possibility—those achy bones, our passions suffocated, this
wisdom concerning exposure—if but to love, while believing in solace, where
perfection is isolated:
that
casual wind, those valleys to memories, our prayers captured by upsurges. I’ve said nothing, as crying through souls,
this opaque feeling—as nebulous sighs, or candid motives, our children sensing
existentialisms: that brook to brains; that phoenix to souls; our rites as
revealing; indeed, to mercy, as swimming rabidly, to come to our inner mentor:
that myriad of voices, as mother, father, or officials: as teachers, psychs, or
memory missiles; as scars, love, or insanity.
