I include us, as steep apologetics, revved by geniuses—this immortal charm,
our arms crossed, our analytical nightmares: to pull back, flipping through
chaos, our mornings to slow escapes. I
include us, a fan by Catholicism,
rewound for forest-life: those christic mystics, this invasive darkness, our
pains seeping into depression. I feel us, our amoral laughter, at sudden
impulse our regrets: this driven phantom, this remote control, our years to
whisper, I live in them.
We’re sad souls, consistent with pills, at
love that second words blossom: this
kleptic psychopath, as holding composure, at mercies by something unkind: this feral psych, this wrenching
countenance, that element as far too compelling: to grant forgiveness, while
needing forgiveness, where mystics wane at slothful seconds.
I try desperately, as still missing his marks, amazed by psychologies: this
something screaming, as to murky elements, to discuss deeply this detached
enchantment: our gist in moments, our picturesque homes, this festoon wailing
its determination.
We plummet at times, too sick to heal, a
rasp to our mentals—while fiddling
pencils, or gluing feathers, or flapping upon low terrain: this cultic warfare,
as never discussed, while analyzed for observed; this kernel, those glassy
eggs, this conviction as rare to converse: our panicked arcs, this volt as
suggestions, our mementoes as reminders: this trinket grieving, this sister
jubilant, this Shen Yun reality—as specters by thoughts, this welt to
sternness, this kiss as something fictional—our stepladder eyes, this feeling
as you, this cagey approach to cultic flames—where mother is ours, as father remains tugged, this
gift late into our developments.
Such relic feelings, this grave to
activities, our nights to stirring passions: as needing fevers, if but
existence, our enigmas wrapped in parentheses: this fatal belief, as cut
asunder, where a man retreats for solace: as selfish war-brains, or casual
behaviors, to switch sockets at terrible dilemmas: as postscript admissions, or
tugging flowers, where amusement becomes torments.
We outfox mirrors, returning to
reservoirs, admiring rare masterpieces: such Rembrandt vision, or religious Cathedrals, by lights this controversial
Pope. We Raphael colors, our virgins as
ideals, or reigns that become by exposure: our minute lives, our seconds to stamina,
this stigmata we travel to escape: as left with self, this familiar terrain,
while grieving, nonetheless. (I died a
snail, to arrive a serpent, to sprint towards humanity): this steep Aretha,
this Patti-train-war, this enmity with feelings: (if but for perfect, our
discouraged inheritance, to love as living): this strange sight, this toppling
balloon, this retraction-sentence: while nibs ooze ink, this rose painted
silver, our fires extinguished as coming to existence.
There comes love, and rain to pavement,
those beautiful scars; as men driven, our kingdoms as women, to perish
something gentle: our vacuumed brains, our lavish sorrows, this character as contagious:
this splendid disposition, that Crest aroma, our bacon upon muffins—as mere
vessels, sick with psychoses, attempting to rupture unto something unfamiliar:
this normal land, this wildfire county, our studded mistakes. I shall retreat, at terrors this feeling,
communing with a generation of seekers: this endless charm, this antiphon
language, this capricious dynamic: as laughing at teas, or nibbling dry wafers,
discomfited by rhythmic vibrations: our undulations, this sea of fair souls,
this toil through torn emotions: our powers affected, as changed with purpose,
while studies show reasons to panic.
