I awoke
dilemmas, I thought, a trippy thought, Pain is often beautiful.
Those
holy eyes, this familiar energy, so receptive to kindness.
Watering
trepidation, our beats ethic cadence, where pain needs clenches.
Now.
Such ruthless ravines, so obsolete, desiring a given catastrophe.
We weather
softly. We die eternal. It becomes life to swelter.
As cursed
but reborn, dripping iron sorrow, glistening in terrific agony.
Pendant
fury. A woman’s vulnerabilities. Realizing a man as distant.
Those
silken remedies, as never our smoldering, reneging upon humanity.
I fell
for rain; I loved, adored and re-chanted flame. As dead looking at felicity.
Those
unclenched loins, our unquenched groans, so purposive internally.
Such
subjective disinterests, wrung emotions, entering like divinity’s fright.
Our pilgrim
hearts, our hailing petals, so aloof these patient, accursed rights.
It was
death, but it felt goodness, so fragile, such leopards, abused by pains.
An unstripped
cadence, lilting gracile, refused after years this magnetism.
Our brains
at patterns, contorted in anguish, while so drown to misery.
Our
quilts knitted. Our minds laughing. As found joy in one person.
…those
heinous joys, those sweating dry spots, rummaging as built to perish.
our
uncooked pangs, growing into fair rawness, those resistant buddings.
at
dearer simplicity, our Wordsworth harmony, our Coleridge numen.
cold
as Kant, or pantheists artists, so deist so bold, while needing church.
…electric
ruth, brilliant bashful bulbs, or horrendous hateful loving calmness.
removed
in us, unbolted for passion, a fantast designed to placate.
such
daymare beauty, so threshed but deliberate, to show something un-strong.
debilitating
elfin grins, swiveting panic anguish, while a mystic took to wrong.
Our
days as nights, but opaque clarity, a flower, a pose, our brighter agonies.
If
stillness be life, to adore despite, those fluorescents, raging scissor
thoughts.
To whisk
into a savior, at determined ridicules, so addicted to pure malaise.
As
creatures dying, or pain resurrecting, while never so close to misery.
I pause
in grains, a harvest for slained, as one too indebted to melancholies.
This
private world, this alienated continent, where we come too close to die.
Our souls
unleashed, so chic for dilemmas, so pure it hurts to touch mud.
Those
casual reigns, this vatic detriment, or those imitative contemplations.
Our mimesis
dynamics, our raging ethos, so gilt to perish holding death’s palms.
If but
to adore, so fortified, while decimating our craving cadent cries.
