Debated as Losing Images

I have little to give, but triumphs to give, adoring this purported seed: my brains are Chevys, this engine at tune-ups, this transmission fluttering comically: our black-magic, our tragic gifts, this day to sobrieties: our deep admissions, to die giving, while boarder-line sociopaths: this dangerous undertaking, this infinite undulation, this small spark at ease: our mythical feelings, this mythical daughter, those carried behaviors: as selfish mantis, or rapacious gorillas, or this languid rock monster…our dreams trespassed, our souls tarnished, our hearts burnished with agonies—to cry affliction, while told for nonsense, our guts bubbling with acids.  I have little to give, in needs with anguish, our therapists dropping tears: this addict banter, this jesting scream, this self-given-indemnity—while others writhe, twisted with torments, as sources scourer new terrains: that cabbage seated, our lettuce as witness, this stony shell as testament: our inner Jesus, our captive souls, this essence purported as Yahweh: our differentials, our dreaded diseases, this green-tag garbage of glaciers: our mother’s habits, as resistant our legacy, where mirrored behaviors are repudiated: this distant psych, as doing for goodness, to measure with keenness a person’s temperaments: as sentimental, this fear in souls, our eyes runny with lakes: this muddy pond, that autumn breeze, this infant songbird.  I have little to give, revved with excitement, at deep thoughts concerning this swan: or that family meeting, as reserved with guilt, while perfection disregards intimacies: that tale of innocence; that grail of needing; that pail of biasness: where father appears, this cultic light, our minds filled with self-appraisals: this needed ability, to withstand those tides, our jutted mountains carved by waters: this intimate soul, threshed with philosophies, living for relished by theological tragedies: this voyage to seas, this hero-savage, this weaving mother—where times are harsh, as filled with joys, if but enough to cloudy our skies: this steep horizon, this mental iguana, those mint-leaf earbites.  I have little to give, a tear to frustration, where absence appears as self-salvation: this little being, this mystic agent, our mirrors hopping with images: as trying desperately, while reaping intentions, this person undergoing rapid transformations: while pushed towards interests, while tugged by resentments, this inner mugging tormenting spiritual brains: that fragile living, this logistic nightmare, our internal linguists—theretofore, this heavy gut, this heavy arm, this hand reaching for alterations—that brown sunbeam, this bright travesty, our days puffing for clarities—that grave calling, our ages running, this terrific swan as peeled within: […we dare to care, as fraught by objectives, rereading scientific histories: this terror to souls, while seeking inventions, this tragic gut scouring to re-invent our wheels: that last essay, that coming commission, this honor by receiving tenure—our souls as captives, our hearts as pianists, our experiences as wind-chimes: this feat as dreaded, this person as altered, this deranged feeling as losing our comforts: that fatal chaos, those determined salmon, our bridgework covered with bears: as something to die for, if ever that intensity, while coldness reaches its warmth: those deep feelings, as needing normality, whereas, we discover this instinct for shifting our footlights: this kicking at goads, this refusal to honor, our miracles in others disregarded—as absorbed in mercy, giving so little, while reaping spiritual harvests: this upscale design, wondering concerning wickedness, while abandoned to waiting out blueprints….].  I have little to give, up-heaving energies, with gold to die for: this once to lights, this tragic arrangement, this treacherous agenda: as father never knows, as perfect in our eyes, while arts abuse this terrific status: this fool in brains, this traveling guitar, our swans carving flutes: as more for life, this pacing harmonica, our rustic roots: this weaving for losing stitches, this engine re-oiled, our fluids running low for patience: as designed to forgive, or designed to hold deaths, where mental images depict our futures.