It becomes
humid, seated in frustration, analyzing amazing facts; to admire simplicity,
while angered by such, listening to a small compass; or imagine some articles,
setting souls to fire, or vicarious underpinnings; rereading poetic wisdom,
pondering this breakthrough, where one is able to detach; our long processes,
our staggering admirations, realized societal thickness. Such archaic nebula,
just to re-infuse, but articulating something most refuse to see. This deep
confliction. This web of burning. Our deserts seeming so aesthetic. I get lost
in feelings—walking in spirit—roaming or tapping into sockets. I see her name,
exploding with vengeance, but so hymnic and categorized. If but to imagine, a
place of worries, where truths are insignificant. Such brutal people, living sensational
lives, where essence depends upon whimsy. This hatred for science, this flippancy
towards Benjamin, these disgusts for Shakespeare. Our minds to Beaumont. Our wilderness
to Jews. While wolves are domesticated. If but this woman, my fairest queen, if
but this feeling; to become too close, where I need you to smile, or this day
runs cold with tortures. Such giants in thoughts, wrenched by passion, watching
fancies—those bold creatures, in spite of devotion, where moments are so
critical. Our defining points, as we see this person, or realizing, I depend
upon goodness—this inner witness, closing our hives, spatial and debated.
It detaches
slowly. This web in knowledge. If but an existential sky-fall. Our sainted
hesitation, this stable of captivations, or this fable so dear to our cave. Our
greatest poet, while hating poetry, so suspicious, while fearing those
passions. So unborn to literature, or so cursed by literature, where life is
always more searching. Our vibrant taverns. Our beating cymbals. While struck
for alarmed too grayly. This sentient well, this pavement trestle, as we sit in
deepest contemplation. While Love was adored, or buffoons entered paradise, so
foolish a man chasing phantoms. Our kingdom to violence, becoming violence, if
but our situation by violence.
I imagine
ignorance, waxing quite ignorantly, or forfeiting anything intellectual. This unsteady
life, solely upon others, as they feel but too aloof from self. Our millpond
whispers, our summer tears, where it really depends upon happiness. This huge
paradox, while going through our hands, or stumbling upon Jung. Our shadow so
darkened. Our voyage so bleak. To realize more hurt than goodness. Our brains
in baskets, carried to graves, our intestines donated. While people wrangle
over life; or explode with rage; so accursed by this lifeless soul. Where patience
is gain, or rain is for deception, as so deep in a bag of tricks.
We never
met. We called it love. But it was societal routine. Our anguished danced. We needed
multiplicity. A nice hello was a thanked hello. In this vest of splinters,
accused of infidelity, to retort something revealing. Our deep pedestals, for
something loose, while men and women are playing fiction. But someone is
living, they must be winning, for coins are double faced. They must exist,
delivered in consideration, enthralled by shared union. This hope in me; for
such depravity in me; to have met a few at such displeasure. Our choice with
words. Our guru insights. When needing something sensational.
I close
a bit dismayed; for life is gunning and hearts are unequipped; shrouded
intentions, while selling eternity, to visit something muddy; where some are
chasing, as never forbidden, and silenced by such behavior.
