I
could love abandonment if not for estrangeness while performing or playing
mannikin; those mind-stars our interior installation or instructed by puppeteers;
those unlit candles seated upon chandeliers or neighbors watching and forming
ghosts. This space in controlled items such humans becoming commodities while
summer was unusually long. I passion a forest and dream a miracle so young in
this vehicle—those sudden phantoms to arrive at innocence or such sweet ventilation;
to live in styles or to constrict air-passages as reborn or un-sentient at
lives in essence and tears; those marvelous souls so geared for assistance and
so beautiful in feelings.
It
was film and rice or dice and mammon at something universe with signs.
Such
melancholic bliss so affected by skies while roaming deeper stations; this mind
with fens or this marshland with sterling eyes as built to perish, reawaken and
flourish.
It
was years to meet you this emotion so indebted our bodies unknowingly aware;
such sweet and fierce rumination such cold but warm friendship while reality
depletes full recognition; whereas, in parts our birds are chanting or clouds
are humming about something intensely gorgeous.
Those
pictures above space those reasons to distrust self while most know prior to
the given situation; thereto, but modicum affliction where a man is depraved
while a woman is in particular feelings; our crazed heart-scare while lost in
screams where comfort seems apparent; this canyon of fleas, those rubescent
intensities, or something plainly chromatic.
Serene
identical nonidentity!
But
it’s comfy this way and it shines this way and we vomit simultaneously this
way.
We
rarely become attuned about something so clear where a habit becomes firm in short
periods of time. Such sweet misery, or such sweet guilt, or sweeter days at
planet existence; to realize something about certain souls, they gravitate
towards things that release humanness; to disappear or so lost I did not know
or so found it was hours to awaken; as creatures by harbingers or hounds from
hell where reality is such needing its alterations: a planet of bees or a
guesthouse of gremlins while in this life a mind is filled with appearances.
So,
we dine upon realism and we sing our harmonica where it appeals to us; this
soft galaxy this warm and cozy space in realms where ghosts applaud; our
dynasties in gold our mentalities in silver and our actualities in bronze; such
rare gifts as to give this person where all-ness is candied yams; to stumble
upon truths this light in essence—we gravitate towards that giving the
most pleasure; but deer in meadows but captive beautiful and wandering deer;
this thing in people to adore presence or laughter entertainment. Those walks
where totality is giggling or rivulets are shuttering and nice music seems
estranged from itself. This life abandoned to its demonstrations those concrete
pebbles watching at something gray about this spectrum.
