There
it lives, personable frustration, too intimate to flee: polite insincerity,
overt substance, fretting time: inconsolable warmth, degenerate comforts, while
edginess is splintered: post-haste, gazing at allusions, rereading at a slower
pace: filmed by consciousness, aloof to signals, or wrapped in situations: to
wonder about fire, where one is enthralled, a bit angered about lightness:
taken for granted, or perceiving nightfall, our sun raging existence: such
beautiful decadence, such educated nymphs, our mothers so desperate to deflect:
there it lives, those interior monsters, so calm, so collected, or such a
sociopath: guts vacuuming, brains languishing, those coming years so vocal: at
fillers at grace, at tears at face, where it seems appropriate: our open
spaces, while dungeons are demarcated, while lines regulate societies: handicapped
personalities, or crippled emotion, where one capitalizes: to damage beauty,
intrigued by innocence, where cheetahs act out of character: at kangaroo eyes,
so fierce with deliberateness, so close to resisting a fatal cry: at wishful
thinking, if but to shift, if but those innocent days: but art is filthy, where
art is tragic, while art delivers holiness: our esthetic screams, our acrylic
nightmares, at wharfs staring into dolphins.
It
changes evermore, while anything is plausible, so easy with destroying
sanctity: so poised, such a beating arc, where integrity seems a second
gesture: hating those grins, despising those charms, cringing at touch:
relocated inside, looking to fix Pluto, if but something openly devastating:
tragic converse, familiar discernibility, fleeing into a laughing cocoon.
There
it lives, a silent mongoose, a lioness-cobra: year-in violence, so rapidly
non-smart, while anything is about its gravity: our titles at ceilings, our
tiles at guts, something incredible has become confetti: piecemealing our
interpretation, sending mixed orbits, while something obvious is treated with
great fury: so disgusting, so framed, where one is pleading commonsense: there
it lives, split in sections, vying for a lost land: so high with nature, or low
with undergrowth, seated beneath roots: soil means little, green pastures
invite life, peaches seem reflective: at years those concerns, at honesty
reviewing, where one will suggest compromise: there it lives, those silent
happenings, where we ignore falling shards: such heavy volume, such vulturous
onlookers, where one is seduced by something fleeting: a casual ear, a casual
dream, too casual for intelligence: insistent this truth, as losing something
distinguished, as it became disappearance!
It
changes evermore, so colored in penance, while a tear dropped a shadow: those
running toddlers, those loud parakeets, our humid, filthy dreams: those minutes
passing, our age considerable, while one increases in silence: achy arts,
private satire, or incredible, unpronounced sentiments: classic denial,
internal apologetics, or irrational acceptance: so aloof to facts, guided by
destruction, while assuming based in minimal strategy: to say anything, as it
comes to mind, while angered one is not accepting those stories: our lights
brilliantly, our cadence with thunder, at storm, frustration, with something
irregular: those love taps, so determined to sustain existence, where they mean
so little: to practically die, longing for roses, while indebted to weeds: our
black nights, our black soot, so enchanted I’ll deceive life: myriad
comforters, leasing inheritance, so converted to reselling miracle deception:
our long memories, infused by but a scream, where evidence becomes so
inconsequential: self-disrespect, self-sabotage, while feeling like air has
courted our kingdom: such dull senses, such a dangerous horizon, where everyone
is vulnerable.
