Whetstone Passions

I sensed melancholia, as potential to cringe, at variance to display credence—this mystical magic, as acclaimed our souls, by cultures with integrated habits; this welkin force, as coursed through cries, such by deaths screaming our sentence—this edgy dungeon, our sweat to music, seated at luxurious restaurants: those four inch steaks, our hankering for fries, this platter or octopus—seeping into sun-bliss, those dolor eyes, sprinkled by hazel trimmings—such gentle banter, leading where devils cry, this nine month excursion. I told Jesus, this second’s promise, while becoming sheer chivalry—if but to relate, as skated our screams, infused for dying awake to pangs: those tender seeping(s), as tender welts, our claws at passions seldom received: to purchase behavior, as sutured woes, our mammon but human reactions. It could to live, this glorious heartsore, as appeased through atypical treacheries—to gun his life, approached this grim-reaper, our hoods tugged down revealing our skeletons: those dungeon eyes, as engulfing timidity, at entrance that lock as keys are flung to seas: if but to taste, as but to enter, while aloof to this feeling called, love—we’d die evermore, while too tired to maintain, this cavalier momentum—as never so casual, this battle upon high grounds, where war is sweeter than complaisance. I sensed sorrow, as born to punish, where said sorrow derives from misconceptions: this sipping of clarities; this insidious Poseidon; our childhood Medusas—those rabid snakes, that cagey approach, this lyric ringing at 3a.m.; at serotonin his nature, at motivation his zeal, at terrible highs those thoughts of love—where art is feeling, while emotion is wingspan, this zest for increasing life’s value—if but to perish, at love this ideal, where philosophers struggle: those gracious arcs; those rancorous eyes; that killing to destroy an unstable atmosphere; as torn sideways, infused by crookedness, to kiss for falling into mirages—that infant crying; that terrorized vestibule; this walking while reading graffiti—as said for nothing, where mother would ache, this failure to realize those joys are her essence; indeed, for tortures, while asked to sin, but a moment in thought where she never requested—this pleat in fools, as lives our treasures, if but to cherish what others take for granted: those lavish scars; that silken complexion; this remaining as humans are divine: our tender tragedy; our humanistic(s); our reason assailing epistemologies—if but to gather, at picnic dreams, peering at Buddhists: that frantic argument; those terrible windows; this peace afforded one that submits: if but to silence, where snails spew wisdom, as our rabbit instincts spell disaster: this fatal secret, as a cygnet's friend, while all for Satan our inner compass; to love for mercy, as kindled a storm, as remembered as eyes spring shores—those blue feelings, as inched into our dynamic, to curse with voice this immortal shame. I love for love, this love for winning, while equipped fairly to match a Wiccans wits: those tremendous shoots, as chimneys vanish, this poet to enter a theologian’s composure. I’ve said little, for needing perfection, this curse forced into existence—as dying often, while losing humanity, to reach for falling into jealousies: that immortal hour, as flowered our surface, while needing one to believe; this cryptic skull, as pure a skeleton, to immortalize a dying frenzy: this whispering gravity, as pulling for exits, to ruin this cultic endeavor: that excellent tug, while resisting magnets, to cry our hermetic enchantress: that music bleeding; our tears clawing; this method in self as far to escapish—where it would be glory, to have but essence, if two would fly unencumbered: this wincing glory; this pure seduction; our selves bleeding flame—where honors are prevalent; as stars are words; where culinary becomes affections—this space in hearts, to feel such souls, as to realize we rarely share: if but to passions, as laughs our inhibitions, seething for cringing—this forum love, as adored a scar, to cleave for life as never infractions: that mutual cadence, to sense this typical alliance, while remaining atypical.