Such
neural attraction unbeknownst to reason but palpable to senses; such
sublime irrationality, to assume total affection, where a person might renege;
this chance we evolve this damaged furnace while most are holding yesteryears.
I
felt flux or fury or seldom a thought without addendums; so ensouled by you to
picture death in you while something remote honors you—as a soul-altered
honesty or a remarkable lover while patient but demanding; our crescent churns
those fantast eyes this whirling windstorm; but life is evil, while it hurts,
for years aforetime I lost us: prior to first glance or prior to second thought
where a man is absolutely infected.
I
need an allusion something inescapable with more rage than appearance; so
bewitching those allures or a man blindfold in spirit where most women are
aware of our ignorance; at bloodshine rivers or blackblood diamonds accursed
for shivers in silence.
I
loosen intuition or regather chalices where reality seems belated. This churchlike
feeling those religious instruments while strumming upon a foreign violin; our
cursed presumption to feel utter humiliation while one smiles faintly; to reenact
a man’s trauma or to advocate for position while void of maintenance; those
deeper anomalies this brain upon relapse or those dispositions alienating human
creatures.
I feel a bit concerned—about
this intensity by love—to define it seems incredible; those pastel grays, those
soft delicate colors—to imagine that love is not selfish; those pear plum
fruits those outrageous demands or sacred as sullen looking for security; our
tea bags with sugar our longevity with doubts or realized as creating each
moment; this strength battle for life is mystery but everything I possess seems
concrete; upon a Persian rose as living in you where nothing matters but your
touch; this needed sickness while I nearly vomit but to pull back causes deeper
inadequacies.
I
require an oracle or something innate to explain falderal. I need to break free
of those crises that linger into centuries. Those airborne ghosts this deep acclamation
or those days acting with purpose; to feel innocence, where others see it,
insomuch a war ensues—
for it couldn’t be real
to sense something in others that our pain has forfeited in us; our blasé mirrors
our conditioned reflections while most are replaying our deceitful moments; to
have one so lost, where intentionality is to please, while we break confidence;
this man with woes this island so far away while time seems to sit in vagueness;
this unreal dampness this blackdamp city or this humanness I can’t defend; as a
dying creature searching into others where true sacrifice comes from within.
