If But He Died for Nothing!

…as dreary our nightmares, so frightened to confess, while life gears deception: if but to panic, our swan legacy, those tears to shadows; to awaken screaming, at space a microscope, to phone lingering through sadness: this mortal bliss, at timed catastrophes, while morning yawns aggravation.  I’m told to live, rummaging metaphysics, peering at bright-eyed octopus—as livid whales, this drill of brackets, alive at luxurious jaguars: those hazel dreams, as once so electric, as it felt honorable to enter by cadence—this breath slipping, our parents flipping, this nonchalance that anything goes!  We’re told to die, if but by wings, this month our dearest purgatories: this psych threshing, this aunty to brains, our wants for perfect studied as muddy waters—where acts fling, this fish of screams, to have with purpose our pragmatic auras: those aqua eyes, or green innovations, to come to deaths lingering in sable gems…this woman at arcs, this vessel by darkness, this wave as to puncture for salvation: if but to live, akin to dramatics, our theater at such to perish our brooks.  I ache at love, to share a Magnum, this essence too clever for Cinderella: our Calypso travesties, at lies to sustain, this method in tyranny acting as if.  I google beavers, alarmed by apes, feeling at times as gorillas: that tier traipsing, this tapestry bawling, our textures bleeding this forest adventure; as never afloat, this vague sensation, at wonders this glorious confession: that telic bane, as chained to seasons, to love at loses fueled with fevers; while, nevertheless, this Bugatti engine, as scentless this pearly womb: our courage to deaths, at torn aphrodisiacs, to have by grace that subtle essence—where mother died, as livid a scar, our livers so gentle that magnetism.  I should for clarity, to wish as successful, this carpet bleeding its negligence: if but to live, as pure a nun, our raptures at divisions, soaring; to catch for hyenas, or drift an infant duck, at lagoons pitching a solid prophecy: that gray sun, that orange cloud, this woman at brains without clearance: our religiosity, to have this song, as murky a palm bleeding sincerity.  It could to gentleness; this vest ruptured in flesh, to excuse a season given its mutuality—that grave seething, our fathers wailing, to confess in private this whetstone encounter—as mother breathes, seated in electric chairs, our brains ruptured by energies: this test to souls, to soon forgive, as realizing, I died to destroy his soul; wherewith, this vicious exchange, this soul at secrets, our captures to seconds as clearing consciences.  (We’re told to fly, if but to expand, our swans plucked as finished); that line grieving, as inverted a dream, to pick for flowers aloft our essence: this pagan voice, as choice’d to persevere, reaming for broken wailing through meadows; this sylvan rapture, that adolescent response, this coppice agency.  [I feel an overseer; I die ambivalence; it comes a time to revoke those childish dealings]: if but to scream, as flooded a ditch, this crevice to miracles a phantom’s elation; indeed, to fevers, our doors rattling, this woman a wind directed to hearts; as born to die, at hells your love, to know with passion this feeling by loses: our casual tricycles, this inner racetrack, our bunnies as vicious vampires: this mother breathing, as alive his mirror, to come to grips at terrors this vision.  I’m told to succeed, despite our feral ghosts, while each turn diminishes bravery: those trepid therapists, that steep suggestion, this ontic survival; as flickering embers, or relaxing heartbeats, to thrum with vice those dahlia eyes; where love was cadence, this shallow ocean, to scream with treasures to alert another; indeed, to measurements, this orpine rose, that far-to-life spruce for brains: therewith, this fatal force, as never his soul, but ever his concentration: if but to live, as dying with grace, to admit at battles, She won that war; hitherto, this slight admission, while afforded a time to relinquish: those bold brains, those Sabbath eyes, this space in tomorrow as confronting our fears; whereat, is smaze, a broken chimney, a grandmother privy to hidden facts; our russet wines; our cheese with crackers; this lucent ability to ignore empathy.