I die
in this place, painted in realism, or too convinced it’s hard pressure to
reach; at subtle aches revised and set freedom or too knitted to sense
otherwise; our sleeping unconsciousness our moments snapping like turtles or
black sunshine this courage to seas; so bothered by this, or too defused with this,
as a kleptic creature in dungeons; to look intently or to move with defacements
abandoned to realization; those years with him those days dying with him where
life has become soothing with him; this creation in minds to imagine sheer
passion while one is eager for much in those mountains; but days are eloquent
and sophistication is centered and dignity came with suffering; those bright
blue moons, those mansion eyes, this measure of intellectuality; so esoteric so
mean in turquoise or captive hearts devastated; our gushing realities if but
this ideal to come to Truth angered at her disguises; so fevered in
designs so dead to penalties at pure contradiction; to die so preciously to
resurrect too late forced to trek life feeling incomplete; as something inborn
this legacy mistress so pure but excitable; as living disasters or permanent
inadequacies so convinced our world is under-siege; delighted to have met but
uncertain about eye pressure where two carry feelings; to adore science or
something might trust you in this age where wiles concern flights; as sensitive
essence so thrilled to envelope lights as abused but healed and such ruthless
eyes; those attractive ways mixed with masculinity as stressed and delivered or
uncured and barely with diligence; those colors in skies those deaths so early
fiddling but ruined as never an indication; our casual sin-creeks as dying
to exist where boxes are piled high carrying adverse experiences. I die in this
place looking for sustained totalities in a forest fraught by wolves; as
careful to intrude to ever this hearing life while sick for patience and
distorted; our needs if but controlled or such lightfast security at zillion
mile attraction; so unsatisfied or so sickening while we need this volatile
adrenaline—so re-wrung so empty but fullness as creatures distressed and
preoccupied; those skies in you this canon of pictures or this valley you sung—as
estranged souls filled with realities so sunken so low or rising uneasily; to
need particular purity at least where a man is blind this fury as most
debilitating; to touch as if virgins this sickness unto remedies as created for
adoring our images; such a frantic arc so divorced from me living out a private
Siena.
as a
delicate feature so withdrawn and happy or so watered in soil; this strong
interior-debate this wrestling with tendencies if but to find solace in a
tearful face; to sense reluctant tides thrown into furnace humilities as
crushed for something a particular thought; such as love would exist this
curious reflexive creature those days to sitting at our fireplaces; as pulled
by holiness in spite of advocacies in so much a bride where something is
perfect; our internal thickets while wilderness is wilder and chiefs are
Native Suns; so evocative as pure distraction where it was want to exist; those
magenta cries as invading our cathedral and undergoing holy vertigo; so close
in this design at permanent elocution to arrive at kindred freedom; too
convinced to doubt while we need but forever as encased in something
besprinkled to winds; our parts dying with miracles those suffering passions
with infinity or at courage to utter a sickening need.
such
soft suffering at brilliant radiance infused by indifferent holiness; to
agonize so grayly at such crucial integrals those blatant disregards; or
gaining in agendas becoming an outer chase or paced but alert inwardly; to live
in those features to design with passion or to have multiple outbursts; so
compelled to giggle so enlove with laughter where souls need Siena.
