I
cried in solace, repenting for passionate mistakes, at wilderness jewels: those
primrose eyes, our primrose guts, as life envelopes into small parts: those
kleptic joys, our seasoned souls, or at exiles laughing with courage: this
filthy sidewalk, those filthy gestures, or this index encyclopedia: as diving
deeper, peering at shadows, and needing to feel good: our treasured blenders,
our romantic ice, where Love appeared as something special: this foolish man,
this dead sky-fixture, those blank movies: to form with existence, to die where
grains are ripe, as something but a grand disappointment: our souls to pains,
this first-class line, as angry onlookers perish our arrival: to gut his
lights, to restore his penchants, while so close our bowels are aggressive: those
large estates, this fixed agenda, while craving for something gentle: those
riddled eyes, this riddled advance, as kissed for dismissed. It was good to love, albeit, wretched,
while fluting so chaotic: that need for deaths, this weed in seas, or those
clever outburst: as mother suffocates, this chamber by gas, or those temperate
loses: if but his mind, if but her anguish, to come to sewers laughing with
sanity: those radiant eyes, as feeling Hulk, to surprise a soul into sprinting
with Batman: such iridescent color, such iridescent cloves, while running aside
horses: that passive aggression, those aggressive passives, while favored for
nearly deceased: this grit in cores, this leaping in minds, while wretched for
deeply at Love.
