I
look’d at cloves, this bundle of ashes, as metaphorical our reigns: while
seeking deaths, as proclaimed in violence, our psychical misunderstandings. I
claim existence, while cleaving to irony, to feel for vexes our paradox—or
misinformation, caged in torments, to find for joys a bit sentimental: that
terrible silence, as misdirected anger, where engines flee through panic—that
trenchant kindness, as kissed our fury, to want for this invariable youth; as
tears for options, while refuting feelings, where one dies cleaving to mere
gestures. I felt presence, this lethal agent, as digging for dying in
glory—those treasured entities, this florid diamond, our marriage with
suspicious clauses: if but to purity, this infant child, our baby-breath-begonias. It could to classes, as reading an
article, where effervescence seeps into dimensions: this rabid mystic, as
confined in essence, to have for violence this kef of fools—while torture
murders, this vicious infusion, to want by desire this amazing fortress: that
itching glory, as cultured to excel, where father sips while peering into
justice: our cranky infants, this piece by puzzles, this grown woman performing
by emotions—or sore this sight, this childish man, to redeem cultures while
praising in private. It comes to deaths, affected by matrix, to feel as
permanent this fleeting elation: that burgundy kiss; those sky-terror
palladiums; this voice as walking while informing through particles—those
immortal wiles, as informative trails, to come to grips clenching fire: our
immortal Asians, as akin to Africans, fleeing for thrusting through myriad
woe-fare: if but to live, our European allies, this presence as voiced with
suspicion—our terrible logic, so effused with traumas, this lady watching as
reminded of his folly; at steeds to cherish, flipping for vapid at weather, to
course with chimes allergic to pure enchantment. We live at graces, this enjoyable converse,
to want for more while peering at infants; to have that claim, aflame a kiln,
where a young girl points at pictures: that famous father, that luxury of
tyrants, this breaking factor as living through mother—if but to live, while afoul
a storm, to come to panic collapsing in Spanish; or lights to gods, while
infused a tornado, to whoosh through closed enclaves; to panic justice, our
father’s gavel, our cartilage chipping at turnpikes—if but to vanish, afraid to
sing, while forced to symphony an arena: that edgy light; this fire by essence;
our music as lyrical elation; to mourn insanity, while purging insanity, to
come to features disputing our sanity—this wealth as blood, this filth as
bleeding, to invert reality while afloat with angels; that serious penchant,
those wistful inventions, that cry in brains losing its texture. I’ve craved
silence, as too vocal to retreat, where angst has managed its precedence: this
cordial attitude, those remarkable spurts, as justice to self disregarding
exponentials; indeed, to perish, at love for failure, while at rumination
blinking into chaos.
