I
see distant roads, this fair impasse, and concrete roses: I imagine silence,
those wintry chills, and crushed ice: this bellicose gila or this idealized
idol, while children worship at unawares: this revving sentiment, our perfect
redemption, and our necessary evils: where angels are knitted softly, where
chipmunks harvest acorns, or our souls remain tethered: at remote feelings,
attempting to feel summer, while drifting in for out—this conscious millipede,
or our unconscious tentacles, while reaching for one last cloud: therewith,
this fuel for passion, our remarkable sources, our strawberries and grapes: at
converse with trees, as witnessed by lions, where snakes stand at attention:
such caring illusions, this bout with maya,
while stark raving at sadness: this shared empire, those countless hats,
and our souls blending our unrealities.
We
construct spaces, our mental geese, our jasper-green ducks: our talkative
lemurs, our casual sloths, at regions within
peeking at potentiality: this rubescent cigar, this pair of scissors, and this
book of matches: where holidays are blurry, while timeless our experiences,
insofar, our created miracles: to sense beauty, as so far those galleries,
where minds become museums: our talks with ghosts, our meals with macaques,
indeed, our morbid terrors: those racing chills, those pheromone tremors, or
just as radical our combined ‘transmitters: this aggregate of feelings, this
rush through science, at reach to touch this spiritual face: our tablets
becoming liquids, our brains swooshing, while built to chase another day:
herewith, those miracle feelings, or those miracle scars, insomuch, our
altered horizon—as pure lizards, by human structures, while feeding our
estrangements: or life be gentle,
this casual reproach, while unlocked and shunning life.
Grays
are similar, our forecasts for adventures, treading this legendary Darwin: or
artists at resurrection, living through our creations, while immortalized in
private ambiguities: this soul for essence, those peas for pheasants, and this
curse condemning this incessant galloping: our created music, our last
batteries, this hard flower presence for fire: as remote beings, while seized by temperaments, where reality seems to taunt
existence: but truths to sight, this occasion for senses, where correlations
radiate by sequences: this palm of seaweed, this rushing tumbleweed, as
metaphors for pressing facts: our human position, accompanied by our human
condition, where essence floods our gates: our fasting frenzies, our fragile
concerns, as feelings grow astringent with pain: this leaky faucet, this
thinking wound, and our fair catastrophes.
Our
years are realities—or strong delusions, our masks blending our preferences:
this series of confusions, this stressed orbit, or days to palms of sawdust:
hither, our dreams, as returning to city quarters, if but congratulated for
fairer those vices: that voyage through deserts, our harping realities, this
wavy falderal to spectators: our morbid chase, our spectacular captures, or our
testimony seeming extravagant: those tears as poets, this flame for arts, or
our thirst quenched by illusions: as men constructing, where women weave—our
children oblivious to partialities: our whistling flutes, our scorpion
friendships, while something lingers beneath our surface—those concrete ropes,
this fiery excitement, or those first three years: as needing exhilaration,
while chasing omen fantasies, to exhaust one’s life through promised
unrealities: this space of passions, this hope in dreams, where one reenters our
public domain.
