We anchor
breath, immediate qualification, at a petal debating eternity; such siphoned
sorrow, befriended by happiness, while both feel uncomfortable; this season for
troubles, to arise so early, recaptioned or reviewed internally; to need a palm
if but to discuss this terrible breakage; to die in those feelings to resurrect
in deep torque where rationality becomes important: I was un-dear to arcs,
prior our orientation, while wondering concerning deeper relations; as presence
was viable, where we watched closely, while resentments ensued; if cutting so
softly, where behavior is by absence, this is true identity; as trusting
agents, this essence stripped of existence, where one realizes such nature; our
cries to clouds, our sick appraisals, to imagine why we become venomous; so
electric—while holding reservations, where sudden retreating is snatched and
thrust’d; but your life, as pure riddle, while such confusion must become
clarity. It becomes miserable bliss, attic avenues, and refurbished
furniture; as intellectual wraiths, or phantom communication, such wrath and
inconsistence; to rage in fluorescence, filmed by interior, at something too
much above pure concentration; such grandiosity, while possessed by otherworldliness,
so revealed so revived or so unrelatable; those creative precepts, while
searching our sentience, or debating telic design; this capsule in melancholia,
this reserve for winners, where pressure seems to peak at determination; our
stomachs growling our minds heightened while carrying a particular malaise; so
tragic at this, such terrific existence, while we lay more claim to sadness;
this familiar location, this universal norm, where one looks at a child and
fears intentionality; our intimate quarrels those relished mistakes where
deeper passion might destroy us.
I’m
not as I was, this defensive person, while wings seem so appropriate; to live
in me, as, too, to exist in us, while unsuspicious and free lightning; for it
matters so little, attempting to decode future mistakes, if but to enjoy those
few gifts one offers; so spiritual, looking and wondering, where we must learn
to love; those seizing quakes as established in moments where life might become
too internal; herein, our external selves, lost in revelries, so much fun, such
quickfire meanings. Or deeper refinements, looking back at memory
behaviors, or wandering this deserted weather; flux and feeling, green tears
and grasshoppers, so tragic, so terrific!
Those
few gifts, as pure miracles, while debating our behaviors; roaming this vast interior,
rereading our mental theosophy, or for one dear enough altering our philosophy;
this dear radiance, this perfect equation, while needing indeed what has been
given; as complete creatures, such sanctioned sanity, our rare and misunderstood
existence; those fair begonias as looking into beauty while one gives as once
so empty; this gray sea, this electric sky, while purities are falling
inwardly; at religious color, so afield by essence, where rationality has
become chained.
