Alienated Colors

…it becomes justice, this intricate battle, our hindsight binoculars: that rugged attitude, those closed doors, that sense-dry substance—as performing miracles, or living incognito, at such love that professes barely: those silent rooms, this inner television, this need for clarity: such ruthless blackmail, as one-sighted debates, our defenses becoming normalities: those wretched seconds, our senseless sex, our agonies dismissed as falderal…those cavy streets, our minutes at lights, those universal symbols: to spark something, while sipping miseries, where rare joys become infatuations: those moist tulips, this Japanese maze, our mothers racing for closure: as therapy cries, this psychiatric gut, a tale too far those straightjackets: as bought her life, this windowless dungeon, to hear beauty, such sightless chirpings….  We live rehab, at steep converse, our eyes betraying our hearts: to sense integrity, as to sully dignity, where one has struggled for freedoms: that man laughing, those uneasy chuckles, to realize this cemented war: that life by records, this inner databank, such as memories forming tentacles: while mental prophets, our designs by studies, to predict our disagreements: our sad mornings, those chasing forces, our hours to denying depressions: that glee-to-brains, this suggestive spark, our neighbors feeling heavy: that rude banter, this strong position, our negotiations: as insecurities, our cabinet brains, this nursery by feelings: our rounded diagrams, those fleeing quadrants, that ten-step solution—to arrive at feelings, while adrift currents, such quality by life increased.  I study curses, as not magical spells, but essence this cadence by inheritance: those do-good hearts, our palms to tombs, our years as have-nots: that riddled story, this fiddling glory, our resilience chased by ghosts: at colossal struggles, as existential rabbis, or metaphysical mathematicians: this shift in thoughts, this feeling as connected, those whispers to proprieties: as never to greet, but ever to meet, while sullen a deep suggestion: such beige tobacco, or celebrated portraits, our increased thoughts by lucre: that soul running, our minds chasing, to have as possession this gift: to aid with spirits, as evacuating temples, while unsaid vehicle chases familiar resonance: that black moon, that benighted sun, those battling stars.  It was daylight, this tower by mornings, while sensing this particular cycle: such cartoon realities, our futures piecing puzzles, our suspicions concerning God: our subtle nights, this silent adventure, our mornings returning: as dates suggest, this difference in realities, while heated-hearts sense familiarity: that powerful calendar, our moments to communion, this choosing by forces our lives: that internet tuatara, those island cats, that metaphoric chameleon—this sea butterfly, this beautiful life, those hump-back whales—as forces lingering, as aesthetics glowing, while wild a feeling by artistries: at zero point madness, or this storyteller life, our existence depended upon interactions: this cold reasoning, this mental monk, or atmospheric miracles: at albatross poetry, this symbolic reality, while studied as unique creatures: where never this light, our welts by impermanence, our grace through change: this living life, this inner multitude, our soil by blossoms that rose.  I searched for concrete, sought by sour candy, fumbling vinegar like sugar: this slippery floor, our beanbag cuddles, that futon witness: our clapping children, at never a guess, our reality but a pair of pliers: as wrenching aliens, our dissociative lives, at existence exclaiming but a fraction: at bodies mourning, at grins while suspicious, at studies giving such essence: this slight confession, this realization, our souls pushed into silence: that first force, that fallen evolution, this hand by designs: our nightly gins, our morning pills, that feeling that life has forced our discussion: that inner accent, this metric called passion, our remotes requiring integrities: to resume existence, pulled for shut, our clams as metaphors.