In
a hostile scope those chairs are violent the rug lacks sympathy; dealing with obstinance
this unappealing wall as it gets closer while it kisses your trauma; such
unreasonable reasons as reason is utilized to defend something unreasonable;
this sensitive soul those roaming skylarks while songbirds have become depressed;
this season for mother these unintelligible feelings while emotion cares less
about reknitting its perspective; our embedded structures as a therapist
unravels key points where mental typists observe, analyze, if but to record
data.
In
a hostile scope odor is vile dimensions open vats where squirming has an aphrodisiac
effect; so unsettled by us or so peculiar about resolution where most behavior
is premeditated; those intense seconds as flying into father a daughter rowing,
laughing, or wiggling into a slumber. Those cages unlock where terror runs free
such angry energy a mother with lives or convinced reality is subjective. Those
ruthless skies so silent, watching, where this room is a storage for tricycles:
bells are clangoring where knells are vigil plus this window reminds about exits;
so seduced or giving so little while needing something terribly myopic; or this
intimate dismissal, this close departure, such hatred accumulated by pictures. While
love giggles where adults challenge so close to home-in-heart it’s resistance
but trilateral compartments. To remember but routines. To imagine something quite
alarming: If not you than easily someone new.
This
allergenic room filled with dissonance while appropriate reflection has a
mirror. Those rooms in life, as born into a room, as infected by rooms; close
to seven drawers close to eleven doors at chores to settle internal lockdown.
We
must play a sacred game where erasers are prevalent where we delete as we
write; such ancient mystery such rich influence while an undertone is meant for
something; but imagine I provoke you, where you seem not to notice, what thoughts
have you left me with? This steep uncertainty if but not me than must be it our
child; for a person can do without adults but a child is something else while
vengeance is sweet until it ruins the child. We, however, shall leave time to
duties so partially erased while split by recognition’s contempt.
at
something that seems true, this dynamic scope: we do not give what we receive;
those room-faces this squeaky tear or those hallways with turns, churns, tiles
or havens; our lotic reasonings, our assumption that one is playing our game,
our drills, debates, or irrelevancies; or this mercy unbeknownst to one where someone
is being gentle; confliction with conflict or subjugation with sentience so
fated to live a gated existence; a soothing reprieve, or thoughts no mind could
imagine, while a person despises your guts; three branches or three enterprises
while we see something in ourselves others are ignoring—or better, it seems so
radiant, it seems so different, one feels compelled to rethread it; this game
in life those unexercised obvious games or someone too skilled to reveal by
earnest; at something critical, this game merely for fun, where one has no idea;
this scope this tragic room while reflecting upon every tragic room; those
ceiling graphs, or little unopened boxes, as they lounge about this fragrant floor;
to die in us where it has never meant anything and remember: Our karma it
contends against our screams!
