but
needing tender souls or casual about sorrows while they must exist; mere extensions
of something in veins as departing from essence; warring our hearts or so
familiar a glance while Petrarch died in agonies; our mental incapacities our
gripping tentacles such faith in something half right; so excused to perish or
such ruins to exist while many are tucked in boxes; our cherished rudiments our
kernels our lives or so abandoned anything is tender.
there
are cadence hassles as there are mental ruffles at deeper spiritual rivets; why
has a man sacrificed comfort or why has a woman lied so neatly at something we
must understand?
but
days are cryptic and cultic while evenings are more to evaluate where suffering
is brightly inadequate or solitary behaviors; our faces and subtleties or
ribbons upon hurtfulness insomuch as airborne or flighty this pillar; so much
into fire or so fantastic certain language while one analyzes and senses
something disorderly; those unspoken realities as used freely where both
parties feel ecstatic. It comes a need to exist to flame beautifully to feel
overwhelming sensations—at every moment this tall task where some are
devastated by something at once an illness.
I
see lime-marks and rust and patience in pain and pleasure by immorality; to
again love like students or to scientific explanation like students where some
things are not so graceful; those mystic feelings sewn into something indecent
where we learn and cringe at ourselves; but life is tender forgiveness where is
wasn’t expected those perfections on Leave it to Beaver.
our
characteristics at darker seconds or counsel with hooks and bats and weary-unspoken
screams—to incite by reason or pleasure by circumstance as lancing and singing
while dying with bells; our freedoms discounted our hats dismounted where
galloping becomes a silent control agency; but agony was sacred and pain was
segue where one was so in-there time was leaping—this furious portrait
those furious ventilations at something too curious to outlive; so close it
aches so charming it haunts or so delicate a little pain is necessary; as
living souls aborted to existence so provoked and so privileged it feels good
to wallow in filth; our cleanness suffocating our weariness too holy while I have
hurt self in order to love her more.
it
takes village traits to command attention by a sky-lake dripping into a sponge;
our demanding realities too beneath to climb out or too elevated not to
collapse a pedestal; at terrible attractions or tucked tightly in a routine
where neither left nor right but straight ahead; this rare manifestation too
simplistic to lose and so dedicated to un-sin at something that must be debated.
but
we mature into cozy islands alarmed by our thoughts while comfy with forging
our dynamics; this lie about reality but things possess reality while I can’t
discern arriving at reality; this voice inside this behavioral outfit inside
while something else is nudging our audience; this need to invite pressure or
to avoid essence while something feels it deserves its nature; at something
romantic this complete acceptance this article as mythic miracle.
