…if
life is by violence, and silence becomes temperament, than dignity is by
sullenness: those teeming devises, our puckering existence, or more, our feudal
resistance: those relic trolleys, those character defenses, this steamboat
insistence: where ghosts haunt, those diamond pyramids, our mirrors raking
perceptions. I discovered sadness, as a
hopeful youngling, listening to Oldies—or tears this gut-phone, reckoned as
analytical, our Sunday night rice with liver: indeed, by gravy, as more, by
hot-sauce, that silent adventure: as cursed sinews, or rabid motivation, while
finding laughter in ghettoes. Our
metaphors, our brazen courage, as adrift mainly without notice: introduced to
goblins, estranged to normalities, at sodium with vengeance: that cistern by
chaos, that intrusion comes harshly, around five peeling our training-wheels.
We
grade souls, We ward-off termites, We cleave to joy-bringers: this parachute
extravaganza, those extra-ordinary spirits, those exponential smiles: while
torn by heartbeats, threshed with swords, sipping upon existence: that fulgent
creature, as bane becomes instruction, our curves this intricate experience:
our turbid ponds, our instant rivals, our inner Sanskrit: our weeping splendor,
our spontaneous shifts, and this immortal race: (those majestic seas, our
mental motifs, as childhood exists by memories: our crucible palms, our
marksmen mandolins, our morning memoirs).
We live by axioms, at seconds, whimpering, comparing life to cartoons:
such nightlong fire, such early alarm, as but a soul realizes those missing pieces:
as achy torches, or defenseless storms, and softly we drift our skyline.
I’ll
come to life, that mystic mystique, at seconds, forgiving traumas: if but to
outsoar, those scholarly texts, where deep abrasiveness affords monsters: our
likeness as similes, our similes distorting essence, our essence steeply with
roots: our midnight sun, our toxics with cranberries, those unboxed ghosts: our
tears with crème, our unwept agonies, or more, this insistence that we live
connected lives: our turmoil weeping, our eyes resilient, those swift snares as
Sibyl-born: this meeting by reflections, this porcelain goose, our pining as
thoughts lurk mountains: this moving sheet, as tossed with resistance, our
lonely nights puckering existence: that mental phantom, our torn perception,
our pious retreats: as grieving passions, while good by consensus, peering into
ethical diagrams: that radish maze, those shrubbery flames, this misfitted
puzzle.
