I
get lost in memories so close so attuned so distant; to love like essence to
die in essence or to relive it daily.
Such
insolent music while casted to oblivion too wise for me too creative.
I encounter elements
stressed or sainted where silence is symphony; our small mistakes our courage hearts
at something snow perfect; the axis of voice or to ask questions this pain we
explore; but a bridge to wounds but sodium to brine so woodcut so elated while
we nestle our feelings; those deconstructed selves those mirrors in turquoise
or brains respecting innocence; our mental draperies, this spirit-curtain, our joust
for love or this winning of love; those seconds we forget those tetanus pricks
while evidence seems inconsequential.
Would
to soul this utopia this inner essence instead of this dystopia.
Those
exulted moments so close to misery while so good at feeling alive; to lose
poetry as to regain scripture where many are wondering deeply; such vex or
turmoil at such tests or struggle while one has a clear perspective on life; so
flailed asunder so devastated composing while true essence seems controversial;
this building of existence, this flirt with deaths, so fretted so crucial as to
why one needs every opportunity; a man’s pride as too his joy where darkness
has ushered at his lips; a minute’s jaunt and such wretchedness where two join
expecting brevity; this other face in souls, this one messing with minds,
insomuch as they designed it for such levity. (to imagine something one adores
those entrance doors this dying in scores)
I haven’t seen much aside
for dreary reality plus faith rebuking its client; such credulity this
eagerness to believe while most are too insecure for utter belief; something it
is, this ascetic existence, while to adore requires self-austerity; for
crevices are heavy angles persist while one might say something enchanting; our
complex ears our soot vibrating where one says something making us feel clean.
I
have come to a conclusion as never again my naivety or never again silence
walking its pace; so, we dig deeper, we become phantoms, where we pride
existence on its terms; such reaching familiarity such absence while needed
where one confides in another where unsaid creature explores exploitation; it
becomes simplistic, from one pool to others, while experience doesn’t change.
We select our lives in
ghostly attire where most just need one secure feeling; but a bit contrite exhausted
by essence where one is becoming too familiar. Those intrusive questions where
we contort our faces while truth is something we beg for; indeed, this realism,
and bring it to heart—What the hell are we going to do with absolute truth?
