Such
spacial weather, accustomed to private storms, or pure speculation, stemming
from misperception: either/or, something is motion, upon a cigar, upon a
musical: at fretted values, or misdirected, upon some type of justice: milk has
spilt, our table is sticky, so we wash frantically: we buff our memories, we
spray our faculties, or with heart, we drill our souls: such heirlooms, at
fractured jewelry, to imbue a delicate portrait: those spinning magnets,
tugging at inner iron, to address something impeachable: our raffled
sentiments, our attachment to kind gestures, our intellectual groceries: at
nauseous feelings, or spent with pleasures, by morning missing our
sunrise. We invest emotion, or unsung
beliefs, given by dire expectation: our wishful appointments, our sentient
joys, our impatient windmills: such rapturous sensation, while peering at hope,
or elated to retrieve as expected: our brushes smiling, our paintings with
motive, our reception gratifying—this webbed raft, at racing our course, to
exhaust a living feeling: those relic skies, those relic colors, our opalescent
sensations—as leprechauns dancing, or dust wafting, or chimes fretting
stillness: such miracle passion, aloof to sadness, at wonders to detach such
particles: our fairer blue risings, our trenchant seas, a bit captured, looking
remotely.
We
watch intently, at apex intuition, whittling oaken emotion: our chasing dreams,
our racy hearts, while some arts are too taboo: as peering at shards, our
rolling body, where reality seems severe: but days are managed, earbites are
distinguished, where we determine our responses: our revving spirits, at
calming resolution, while something would waltz inside: at drumbeats, or
cymbals clanging, while most instruments are rarely employed. I watch adolescence, this impressionable
universe, those few passions: such radiant visions, such hope filled in jars,
at seasons musing while groaning over love: this fair invention, our inner
reasoning, as tugged by something incredible: our muses for arts, our kleptic
feelings, our days spent waxing fences: our gray swards, hovering over gray
rays, while rapid a series of sensations: to call for love, this invisible
essence, this fury invisible ball: while clutching for clutched, or paced for
captured, or soundless for under-spoken—this abstract adventure, searching for
concrete dialogue, while experimenting with spiritual forces: at souls made
golden, at florescent friends, where qualification meant peaceful interaction:
at peace our years, our deeper inclination, a tear more restrictive: but
needing childhood, that box of toys, our mesmerizing diaries.
