I
made a promise, so long in completion, so engrained in essence: this working
force, exclaiming agony, so crazed at life: at fixing existence, where
existence in gunning, our souls, our arcs, as targets: those gentle wings,
those Gentile eyes, so classy, so afraid: this rift is souls, amidst frightened
laughter, at senses and empirical feelings: indeed, our concerns, and, namely,
our guts: by future embrace, running low upon faith, realizing this has become
motive: a harsh sneeze, an interior sneeze, so much to mind it speaks: afflatus
nuances, are sought by lungs, our mothers naked shunning assistance: a tad bit
of Merlot, a raspberry cigar, and a group of problems: those mockingbirds,
formed upon railroad tracks, while fiend’n gently: this daily reminder, our
unsullied disposition, at unanimous triumph: deserving of beauty, but what for
others, doing it daily with pleasure: our sparks at noon, our lapses at
evenings, or a quick nap after cranberries: such radical cries, such faithful
sobriety, where many are purely addicts.
If but adventure, longing into silence, seeing people upon an inner eye:
such royal havoc, such cantankerous garbs, at threats and life and sugarcane
chaos…,
…it’s
quite foggy, so fraught by smoke, pouring out Cabernet: our transformed spines,
our long-held methodologies, gazing into outer-space: such filthy anguish, such
belighted sorrow, such bespoken angst—this faucet raging, this tub too
emphatic, these walls screaming and nagging if but this ceiling’s conversation:
our pushy insights, this echelon feeling, made privy to something aggravating:
those snippets whispering, our souls overloaded, while opponents care less for
opposition: shoving pots and pans, cooking delectable shrimps, and flushing our
meal: droopy-eyed and sneezing, foggy and sipping, gazing over at something
missing this undertaking: sweeping debris, laughing with particles, and
hiccupping a songbird: regenerating software, tinkering with hardware, our
CD-Rom becoming universal: this deep connection, to recycle a feeling, or to
transfer a feeling: at guts and guitar, at gates vexed, or velvet upon a
violin…,
I
pout at seconds, snatching a piece of me, as returning rhinoceros snouts: this
place in sandcastles, this adoring father, while planting seeds so early—our
grout with pudding, our achy bellies, our licorice with cheese: if but a
feeling, our barefoot agendas, our souls captured by parentheses: an emotion of
passion, even felicity, sudden upon a course for souls: our white roses, our
manicured gardens, our pedicured diamonds: at raincoat Sundays, at too many
glasses, affixed to certain outcomes: to will
our fortune, to jazz our heartaches, at something a person akin to
parachutes: such penmanship, outlining our futures, our diaries filled with
wishes.
…those
colours, Precious, those red ruby colours, affecting our panic attacks: running
tracks, dusty to winds, our lives beginning so early: those muddy pancakes, our
delectable flowers, at grapevine hysteria: our friends giggling, over something
gentle, where we entertain by glee: this club of advancements, this island of
adolescents, our dreams to live this movie life: about a day’s journey, to dig
into mucus, to rearrange something fragile: as pieces of self, given in
earnest, to entrust another to heal us: this difficult task, as opposing
scruples, while needing a shot through darkness: to settle his soul, to quiet
his mind, where remarkable appears sketching portraits: at face to face
cleverness, at rapture and pain, so close to his breakthrough: to divest those
souls, as etched inwardly, while tugging upon resentments: that person this,
those persons that, where true healing comes with forgiveness: else, to odd
seconds, looking into pistols, realizing something is richly askew….
