It’s
frightening to adore while one explores to become so close; to die a smidgen at
something beautiful while afraid to weather the winter; our terrified guts, to
imagine losing, such a gleeful man breaking silence; to exploit sadness as
something completed where misery becomes sullen joy; such systematic attraction
so well-developed and to this end was I born; to embed in science to un-value
religiosity such form by evidence; our children such glue our remorse so small
while we qualm over attitudes; this stage by life those drains in skies at
something so perfect it might die; such methodology at core tentacles our theory
so exclusive; as miracle flesh so boggled by ethics or so pursued by morals;
our fragile lives so dependent upon winds while grounded in something volatile.
The future has purpose, our analyses uprooted while we search for something
extraterrestrial; such rich humility or richer pride while attempting and
trying harder; every measure in teal saffron and every death is green if but so
indebted to an operation; as holy creatures looking at Little Asia so
confounded by beauty; as deliberate vassals so blessed it hurts while loses
become preordained:
(to get his
attention something took existence and unwrapped his brains; to imagine his
campaign or to treasure his technique where in an instance nothing works; a man
so complaisant a woman feeling heaven while an Asian man knew for ruins; the
importance of longevity or the importance of behavior where something
incredible might maintain; a difficult gate a strong career or a longer railway;
as speechless souls looking at radiant nakedness and evaluating every curve;
this league of doubts this miraculous session as achieved and bleeding sincerity.)
It’s
endemic to adore it’s radical to love while something meant much in its
absence; our claims so indebted to fears our reasons so absolute while everyone
is laughing; where kith tries harder but something seems irregular plus rumors
concerning discretion; to imagine not watching you in some sort of fashion
while a wife admonishes her husband; to call it as a Siren this risky title
where women are knitting a social torch; our pores screaming our waves
screaming if but to shed an entire layer; the voice of memoirs this kitsch
relationship while souls are so intimate; to watch it so plainly those two kids
running wild while Love is in an intimate convo: Father is alone, he needs
company and we shouldn’t think that way: it becomes radical the slithers we
see while wives are rejoicing in something averted.
Those mental aglets
while senses implode our souls haggling Vera’s depression; such dearer dice
such Monet nothingness at sense-making to explain Pollock; but Love is
smiling where Love is a child’s angel while reality is disappearing; such splattered
paints such rich attraction but this is normal.
A can
for Warhol and my structure for humankind and your energy for survival; such
pure poison such acidic reflexes at something too terrible to complete; those
two years those unforgiveable diseased infested years; such perfume for filth
at something all-in this space while burglary ran with his arc; those
meaningless years with meaningless support while many are reclaiming misery;
those days so alone with life and renegotiating core understanding while
attempting to clarify those inner sentences; such activity, and a man wonders,
concerning how many we require; a sour locket, a sour daughter, but a radiant
and glorified mother.
