…this
strange atmosphere, to adore passion, to laugh, lie and placate: to lose with
venom, to entertain venom, to perish sipping venom: as never a notion, to this
big black ball, where realization speaks clearly: our hurtful actions, pleading
for glitter, where mirrors are running amuck: those playful eyes, that playful
grin, our playful hearts: (I remember actions, strewn asunder, planted and
hatched: such emotion, a blackmail foundation, and several years of panic: to
witness life, to realize deep scars, to implode failing that path: that green
moon, those hazel screams, as never a thought to intentionality: our straying
souls, found in college, looking at tragedies: our achy existence, our penchant
crosses, where so many begun as Catholics: those losing realities, this cursed
persistence, this sacred enterprise): to gift a feeling, to sense your charms,
at arms reaching in vain: those sad winners, those gleeful vandals, while
reality means so little: to slither, hither, or play upon titles, where many
are ignoring outfits….
I
see pain-stars, I see resistance playing its cards, and I see difficulties with
relations: mother’s journey, a daughter’s inheritance, repeating a lifestyle
that fails to work: such ingenuity, such simple chaos, such fain’d gentility:
but recourse is influenced, this notion of ethics, this intensity concerning behavior:
our last ought, our first joys, and
regrets budding into dragons: to stream gently, to feel gently, to imagine
receiving exactly what we give: no less, Love, no more, Adored One, while
jealousies spawn a web: (this tragic potential, this musicality, those tragic
elations: stemming from sorrow, at sky and dungeon, while needing identity:
that centered person, sensing as reality appears, while giving pardons to
certain patterns: if but to breathe, if but our magic, if but our hearts:
thereto, this gentle swan, this loving future, as oppose to sneaky enterprises:
to hate a man, while he sees existence, at ruins for plots failed: this
heirloom life, this shaky venom, where insistence seems to hurt: at stages within, at prose and poetry, our ink displaying
our travesties): indeed, this lying man, this filthy beast, while others are
pure and gentle.
…we
become attributes, needing our souls kissed, and needing total submission: this
eerie dynamic, those cautious observations, where humans set out to conquer humans:
read into history, read into politics, read into a woman’s love: some are
typical, where others are determined, while others are serious concerning right actions: either way, this trial by
errors, those innocent errors, or such that ruin existence: to live that light,
as defending that light, coming upon thirty years of destruction: to imagine
those thoughts, to imagine those brains, to imagine such guilt and turmoil:
(I’ve said little, and never his thoughts, and yes, He must be sick): it becomes saddening, this deeper ride, this
hell-bent dilemma: those ears listening, those palms touching, those intuitive
calculations: to possess such highness, as realizing a true secret, humans
rarely display internal operations: as opposed to niceties, concealed diseases,
while to inflict a person deliberately: as one recoils, another is inquisitive,
as to why such horrified reaction: this crazed mentality, those sickly souls,
where everything is by secret and sacrifice: where love desires love, if and
only if, love consists of pure blindness: (oh to cages, this ode on behavior,
this need to nudge you, thither): if but for existence, to possess something
pure, even if this life is devoid of us: for life is roses, if planted early,
despite, those deep abrasions: to possess beauty and nights and romance and
song: such marvelous sites, to travel and picture, to live and thirst for
something pure: as opposed to feeling caged, or feeling soiled, or hating for
life resisted your con: those parachutes open, this paragliding is life, those
skies are parasailing: as gifted souls, longing for museums, with a few deep
questions for a potential partner…!
