I’ve
lied to mirrors, such altered perceptions, as one catching up to his brains:
this casual edifice, or such groomed deception, at this bridge claiming
normality: to respond differently, or to lack responses, where normality yells
at every infraction: this law by nature, where owls swoosh in silence, while
prey runs this frantic race. I walk
mirrors, tugging at ceilings, avoiding this soul capture: or wrapped in
seasons, to spin with excitement, or to crush upon living apricots: as miles
return, where shadows have danced, our intestines dining at pure conception:
this pitied friend, this winning artist, or gentle to thoughts this ravished
damsel. It becomes reflection, our
babies raised by scorpions, our scorpions chased by gila screams: our latest
clove, this trefoil for wishes, or more, this crawl attempting permeation:
where smoke settles, reaching our nervous system, our charms forming habits:
those bat-like warzones, this radicalized loss, to realize we attract by
seasons: as but a child, looking at fair beauty, and moved by something
inherent in dreams: our arts racing, our chase proving futile, or tears to life
our exotic fruits: our muscles shifting, this acme peaking, or days to terror
sensations. I saw symbols, this wave of
intentions, and this feeling for authentication: at reclusive churns, or
repulsive currents, while acting, nonetheless: this party for feelings, this
sad undertow, or more this elevation kissing at those peaks: where mothers
become elaborate, or women want children, as to open a discussion: this
wandering soul, this intrepid clock, or better, our reality confessing this
warrant for unyielding trust: our restless nights, or such by morning secrets,
or such by purity our mettlesome pains—this flying creature, this human head,
or fire with brains this animal’s body: where Love is secluded, so close afar a
scream, our battles standing in stillness—this river vineyard, this meerkat
freedom, or our domesticated chimpanzees: as feeling morality, if but this
game, where warriors blitz through while actions become chess: this arrangement
of terrors, this ball midair, as it sits in stillness steadily spinning: those
raining cages, our opinionated spectators, where in reality, I must live this Light: to dream as
winners, this contagious outlook, this fueled controversy—as positioned souls,
distressing our upper essence, or plaid with thoughts and confused about
purpose: our aches reigning, our arcs as subtle, or this furious darkness so
steep with existence.
I’m
critical with vices, I’m lost in speculation, and, moreover, I fret over
potential realities: this writer’s imagination, this gorgeous creation, this
versatile vitality: those evening discussions, those late nite intimacies, or,
furthermore, our dreams wrapped in our progeny: this thinking man, this
maturity becoming intrusive, or tears to life our cutting insights: those inner
sentences, as present before birth, or this metaphysical resistance: to possess
pure reality, our armpit axioms, and those few words permeating our vocabulary:
this inner Ghost, this inner Chi, at tendencies reflecting upon heat: as
confessed a flower, with such devious eyes, while, nonetheless, this weakness
for this riddle: if but to fly, or but to sing, where at times, its us alone at seas: our trenchant warfare,
this internal kingdom, or, notwithstanding, this internal hospital: our
medicinal concerns, our reckless highs, as our
present writer sparks a clove: indeed, such sensory, such insight, or at
times, this pure afflatus: our meadow epiphanies, our ability to see, or this
churning while at forest spinning a leaf: where Love is brilliant, this deep
mediator, this prolific advisor: our minds in union, our care for two souls,
and our laughs harmonizing in chains.
