I
have become jitters or sad passion or alarming emptiness; to die but live
forced to faint or captive to fawn; so abased or agitated concerning those
needs such rich chaos;
to
look and feel or to gaze but stillness where something should move; such framed
psychology at such incredible sophistication while knitted into an underbelly—
as
monsters or machines while thereinto a bit hazy aboveboard but feeling filthy;
our drastic sacrifice our furnace sizzling where most are never refined.
I have loved but you at
such incredible risk to imagine how rawness becomes contagion; such ultimate
symbols where we’ve tendered accounts as creatures lying with good cause; to
savor something critical to instill faith while realized as despicable specimens;
so low by behavior but
behaving that essence so glow such shivers while languishing; our jingling
souls our desolate distressors where innocence has become destroyed; to have
loved more than deaths to have sunk into havens where we’re left with rain;
this
pouring mystery those aching clouds to trek upside-down—
our broken reach those
immortal sandals while so close to arc such damages; for Agony is music, so
gentle into oblivion, while tears are painful blackmail; such zenic instincts
such rich tolerance where a glance fills a person with sheer distrust; but to
live this journey, to resurrect blindly or to meet another by such affectation;
those emotion-caves those ink-blotches and screams or such mercury mind-slides:
pumpkins at sundown or
straightjackets at sunrise our raspy interior-voice; to know each theory to apply
each to existence where too much becomes reason to forfeit them all; fangs and
signs such fog and fever while this lamb has but one key.
Our
animal assessments our electrified contours while our treasury has a galaxy of
its orbit; such lived fiction as such unlived vessels our minds as excruciating
freedom; but Passion was gentle to walk a man North while tugged and giants so
uncured;
so
bitter for clumsy such eyes for graves, or so bad and anxious; our dusky skies
our dusty deserts but ever more ready to exist; this black-art those taboo
glories while every inch feels so used; those russet horizons such empty wet
ice so swift to respond so grogged and gloomy;
as
fierce maliciousness or granny’s patience where kids adore and worship you.
