By his
mind those ghosts so splayed so reviewed; to damage himself too furious to fix
himself at intimate mirrors; so cursed to have loved so found to have died at
pictures in brains and flying; such beauty misery or such miserable beauty at
such fairer problems; while waxing his dilemma so astute in remembering to have
given a bracelet and it disappeared. I’m so tired these days while analyzing
where thoughts begin while listening closer to our pits; those dreams we have
escaping our senses where Love was perfect and crying; something concerning an
ex and something concerning losing while a man has a weakness; so hardened but
softly so caged but free insomuch to rearrange our trenchant forest.
Those
concrete deserts, a man arguing pavements, where a gecko is groaning: such a
number as math doesn’t bend while one would claim Jesus. It seems curious these
days in limbo and wondering where a child comes to conclusions; for it seems so
apparent and it glares at midday but we ignore in order to preserve our mirage;
this iridescent shadow those remarkable miles while a soul must outrun a
zillion phantoms—as cured in this to see life in this while it has been a
negative hike; those steep hills at terrible affection where something in us
isn’t quite serious enough. Those un-caved spirits roaming and searching as
needing to invade our kingdom; such paranoid sensories or adequate suspicion
while correlation is rarely just given; those darker ghosts as a man roams his
mind so gripped and dirty climbing a filthy mountain; as so independent while Love
needs devotion but Love has one agony to manage—this gremlin as it eats and
morphs into midnight hour; this fool in me this missing anguish while laughing
and fair and kissing into fluids; our bondage brains, our terror twilights, so
still in sadness; this gut-war this woman I displaced or this daughter learning
new science; at critical chaos such zest and zeal these daring dells into this feral
fountain; as accustomed to rewarding you while denied rewards so low into our
famous friction—this act in homes this reality in public our illogical ethics.
Upon
a dragonfly so steep into leviathan at those caiman genetics; at lightning
cloves and rich into freedoms while accursed for partial remission; such fire
those moments as a resilient body but so ripe for unrest; our raw mountains
while nothing was unsaid and this becomes more important than knitting positive
patterns; such vital vexation as not a decent breath in us but more saving our
ousted faces; where something is peculiar about life, to hear a one-sided story,
where the other person is purely horrible; it becomes a listening pain, while
it often remains unnoticed, but critical thought is earned; to move beyond
initial feelings to wait it out and enter into a sacred location; to wait for
the volta, to shift with the sonnet, to hear the triumphant couplet. Our masks
so cemented our lines so squiggly at something too crucial to ignore: a man’s
life or better his sanity so eager to fix his wrongs; this horrific vocation,
to run backwards trying to erase, just about every indiscretion known to
humankind; some things are unfixable they exist with purpose and only a damn
fool dines with a crocodile.
About
as zealous as ants if but to impart some language if but to unravel this writ. It
becomes controlling or it becomes demanding or it takes up an irritable ass
disposition; it manipulates and prevaricates and it relates at a lower chakra;
it looks uncomfortable it tries too hard and it hates anything above its hypotheticals;
these tentative devices while it angers deliberately for it’s a horrible
person. (It thinks a shift in behavior shall alleviate yesterday’s episode.) It
can’t see itself. It believes the world is unintelligent. Plus, it is always
smarter than us.
