Brown Eyes: Hazel Screams: Meadow Dreams

…make evaluations, while reading habits, astute for crooked pleading dishonesties: this tour in men, this archaic breath, our Om(s) at widths: to explode gravity, our teary brains, our grannies kissing our pineal glands.     I wound existence, peering at swans, at cadence this distance—our insistent thunder spears, this rapid heart-elation, our contours glowing with ecstasies—our inner mail, this postal arc, our telegraphs to silent essence: if but to fly, at pure existence, a bit sullen our evenings deteriorate.     I saw legacies: I felt addicts: I sided as lefties afforded this mercy: our cryptic psychologists, our weary theologians, our immortal grandparents—where Precious slumbers, as captured by morals, to bleed this cultic existence: that inching phone, this lawyer’s vest, our judges nigh deaths: if but as sought, this ecliptic universe, while slew at songs this shiver.     I heard feelings, a-stream this river, while encapsulated with mystics: our carnal cries, this spiritual sigh, those swanic eyes—where granny feels filthy, at loses this jewel, where family becomes insensitive…our transmissions, this leaky valve, our driveways spotted by oils: this conglomerate connection, this fueled psych, our overseers deliberating.     It comes with genius, this revived addict, this lesson to souls where drugs are instruments: this motive to die, this feeling to charge, jutted for threshed at blank insanity: this non-motion, this inner ocean, our wings to souls a kilometer at Mars.     I’m hacking, Love: seated in permanence: this steep resistance to kef: our glass fans, our ceiling mirrors, this vase depicting Buddhism: if but a glimpse, seasoned with legends, this grandiose insanity: as fueled for mercies, or crying his legacies, to aunt a vibe feeling this family: our essence bleeding, our hands as nailed, our resurrection a tear to Satan: this lonely soul, as filled with powers, forced to secrets seeping into reservoirs.     I saw a flower: I held sap: I thought to owls this restricted light: our ferrets laughing: our meerkats reclaiming: it comes to skies this falling upwards: our grand appeal, this meter above, while serious minds find heaven this journey: as kleptic honesties, or hectic revelations, our epiphanies a bit torn to judgments: if but to exist, as typing with heaviness, to see or witness eyes shedding insanities: this lambent arc: those cadent sparks: this blessing as penetrating by essence a person’s insistence: this deep enchant, to walk as staggering, to feel with life this absent of intoxicants: our brave minds, this feeling to posses, as taking ownership: insofar, our errors, splayed as dying, our restrooms private sanctuaries: to peer at life, while wiping a tear, where swans exist as royalties.     Something died, as tulips blossomed, and something lived as roses withered: this kindness to monks, this fluorescence to nuns, this shaman damn near ecstatic: where mothers flee, as fathers chase, our children pollen’s oblivion{….}    I heard to pause, as steep affliction, while reared in thoughts a mother’s image: our Gucci pretence; our Versace countenance; this Golf Shirt speaking to delusions: our feral cries, this florid future, our valves adorned by refurbishments.     I ache to dance, at justice with monsters, as realized compassionate souls: this inner caution, while abandoned to strangers, reading into fatigues: our attic rapture, this ghost by humans, this veil fraught by veneers—if but to perish, we dine with angels, our inmost resilience: this swanic art, as born with feelings, while smiled a glance those familiar parents: our cries muffled, this begonia accepting cycles, our fuel through screams as more to legends…our ballets winded, this balloon sinning, our cards thrust upon gambles…such frantic abandon, such love to live, our ember but a spark fretted to exist: that marvelous passion, those glamorous eyes, this lint to waves as more a spirit.     I laugh in pains: I chance with spears: I tend to Humble by countenance: at vibrant soul-washes, or agog-rituals, forced for thriving as renewed laundry: this embolden opera; those mental chastisements; this cadenza as chanting while removed from persons.