Invisible Stranger

…by gentle spells, this rushing life, our symbology our rites: at meddlesome diamonds, or accursed by riches, lurching into kingdoms: such glamour and pain, such remorse and perseverance, such edgy composition: this logos land, fraught by inhibitions, while drugs pursue our dreams: that first this for that, our exclaim as madness, our scars bigger than our resilience: at foggy meetings, listening to foggy language, or so close to failing: this swigging machine, our mother’s dynasty, our mother’s mistakes: while hoping for father, this indiscreet brain, our knuckles dragging: those few mirrors, screwed into psyches, this man this stranger this light: as ruined for others, a fair amount of compassion, our rules seemingly bias: thereto, this false reality, this protective reality, where reality possesses little meaning: this deep fracture, this needs to survive, at something screaming by mysticism: whereto, this close Entity, this friend of sufferers, while something so low could evolve into something great: our pleasant therapists, our observant psychologists, or something a bit discreet (but overt): those psychical films, this inner cinema, our Shakespearian stages: at aloof pathos, tragic and teary, set by resilience to reappear: such laughter funneled, such flimsy joy, while Love hates what she wishes shall survive: this gray tinge, those remote applauses, where tears have become acidic….     …we seek alliances, we study behaviors, while requiring manuscripts: such tinge intimacy, such platonic tiptoeing, such rationalization: this cloister of feelings, those ballads made thunder, to try so desperately: at winded cries, at chantress liturgies, or seated as antitheses: this measure as displeased, our agnostics watching, our fair queens requiring something emphatic: while lively with wounds, sipping plum juice, or debating an unopened exploration—at times of forbidden wine, at chimes with secret confessions, while absolution came with mere a verse:

…so at ease, and so uneasy, and such for a bowl of satire: to picklock emotion, about something flat, to realize those terrific spears: our spurs digging, our gardens adverse, our delicate rain sparse but gentle: therewith, seeking elaborate balance, this room of rumination, our psychical aesthetics: so terrified; or so debated; while feeling something in merely that instance: this promise of time, such emotional blackmail, while one feels ashamed for fleeting emotion: our webs through ethos, our lit cigars, or those fleeing rubrics so adjusted to survival: this need to posses, this want to fly, as another day passes its location….

…inherited or nurtured, or both with sacrifice—this argument running into dungeons: at an early age, disputing sherm-leafs, or mimicking behaviors: dominoes slamming, that supple stench, our ears ringing loudness: this penchant for converse, this legacy dying, at silent years: our gray Pumas, our plain white shirts, our baggy Sweat Pants: indeed, to lonely rooms, or this elementary psych, while mother said something akin to silence: at mother’s business, at father’s absence, while unconsidered for prophecy: those inner movies, our perfect dinners, as opposed to angry silence: to boil water, for much those baths, to share such water: (it comes with age, diligence, and a bit of calmness: while theirs is contention, our contention is slammed, our voice is trampled under caves: those inner layers, this mental pleat, where convergence seems apropos: to watch a twelve year old, dancing and talking, where only spirits are listening: those chattering phones, our internal lies, while so secluded public life is blurry: those decades waning, and thrust into society, where onlookers have deemed one as difficult): but yours is mystic, and yours is opera, and ours shall evolve into resistance: this persistent presence, this life those children, this epitome of contentions: as rare giants, those farm flowers, such amorphous insistence….