…indeed,
but us humans, analyzed over
speed-bumps, or devastated by normal realities: that push for clarity,
indicative of feeling minds, while wiggling a glass of profanity: our carefree
heart-spurts, our insatiable brain-spikes, our days to doodling as if prepared
for museums: if but one sip, or but one friend, as one trusted in Vietnam: our
caged aches, those bars of poetry, or lithic beliefs in being rescued: our
human recitals, our mystic liturgies, or our aches becoming apathetic—while art
simmers, this famous luxury, or those reluctant yawns: at faces reluctant, at
harbingers with tools, or realized this life as one psychiatric adventure:
I
met a hero, or more a heroine, and listened by eyes to her story: these sticky
hot-prints, those reaching intrusions, while conformed to gaze as if lights
were crying:
I
felt protrusions, upon this island of strangers, where one is forced to share:
those kleptic ventures, this assimilated imposition, or this hint suggesting our
mangled serenades: those photographs, concerning sentiments, while ghosts are
captured mid-verse: those raiding sighs, or terrific ensembles, where antique
trinkets speak to immortality: our messy desks, our floors as witnesses, or
this perfected design to elicit comfort: those leather couches, or mahogany
invisibility, (as to walk away realizing this absence of smiles): or that
trying second, where something appeared, but neither were energized to pursue
our reckless skies.
…those
years as music, this delicate creature, and these motion-violinists: those
trumpets silenced, or triumphs screaming, as to sense something diminishing:
this person emerging, this analytical debater, (if unfortunate), this observer
becoming quite pessimistic: those tiles imprinted, our pictures lingering, or
this felt realization to notice our rugs: our noetic seconds, our dark
intuitions, or raving for punished to sense goodness: that flying dissipation,
this tear amid waters, or years to reciting an old promise: our churning
pianos, our gutted cellos, or this plate of decadent desserts—as souls
formulating, or cries escalating, if but one sentence…!
I filter
issues, this planet of opinions, these make-believe but real imaginings: this
seeing essence, as to correlate properties, where horses are kicking goads: as
a chick nestles, I come to terms, where realization points to apologetics: our
daily lives, if but for sanity, as opposed to feeling hated: this mental
go-through, as versus our experiences, while it took a month to divest: this
wealth of tadpoles, this forest of frogs, or this lavish excitement to awaken
with Passion: our miracle dreams, our miracle sanctuaries, or life before death
seeking our inceptions: those radical attractions, this dramatical element, or
more our brains searching for adventures: this feeling of life, this ability to
enjoy existence, where many have lost this fortunate capacity. We perish softly, attached to real
thoughts, or floating for refusing Reality’s light-prints: this message
unclear, but yet I scream—of this fair fight to win majesty: our phlegmatic
hearts, or pelagic sights, where nebula effects our first cello: those welted
feelings, or wilted emotions, while, nonetheless, attempting to reach biblic
bliss: our trying motors, our pigeon-like abeyance, or miracles to persons
loving sheer simplicity: those outstanding kisses, this beware of souls, or proprieties taking precedence over selfish
inclinations: as established humans, at radical concerns, wher conversation
becomes gratifying: indeed, with measurements, to postulate about realities, or
to correlate our findings with our subject-matter: as flying particles, to invade
heart-cavities, where two met life behind synaptic gaps!
