If I
say that people cannot change, and then I say that I have changed, this becomes
a glaring contradiction; for death is attached here and misery is glory while
many miss the contradiction. It sings to me in a soften voice while realizing
one is incapable of winning favor; a message with wings or an outstanding
punishment too lethal to contend. But Love was agonies and Love was romances
and Love selected me; this addition to lovers this musical concerto those
violins at our incipience; tears fell at precise moments anguish moaned for
comfort a man thought to protect Medusa; those snakes were beautiful those eyes
were opalescent and chemistry was enhanced by wretched pain. But flowers
rebuked this intimacy for pagans where many have little qualm with that; albeit,
a child and languishing deceits we hate like eagles haunting prey; this evening
with tales and laughter those mornings our naked flesh while a woman adores a
muscular man; those times it wouldn’t erupt, our drastic concerns, where a man
just felt like kingdoms in there. I reappear as some sort of creature and
feeling so corrupt; those diabolical seas those mechanical devices at luxuries
to flee. But fire was so close and passion was so fierce while a man might need
his legacy; those forked tongues to tell all while feeling so secure; to gossip
and laugh to cause a rift and laugh while so deeply insecure; our prayers for
father, our days with mother, while it seems women are a bit more determined. I
giggle in irony so casted to dregs while everyone else is changing: I no-longer
do that or I’m above that or I was slumming back then. It’s quite pervious
or quite perverted as needing and requiring such darkness. Those deeds we
relish in those exact deeds so much shame while one would die before reneging. But
this is life those valued sequences while one is wondering about the worth of
brains; to sing in ideologies, to head over the church, and no need to say
more.
Those
purer lakes oh to dance and chime if but to locate; so much rattling in bushes
a small lad is curious he is then rushed to emergency; but this is our eyes
sensing and rebuking for Love is devastation—those tiny this those
smaller that where incognito is not so important. I have loved this
phantom but the umbrella is broken and the chalk is sour; those chairs are
aligned the ceiling is steady but the floor is uneasy; love is power and
ecstasy is addictive but our souls are miserable; it was hell to lose it was
sudden a mistake but it felt so natural to divorce existence; this problem I feel
where life is a battle and everything rests upon his shoulders; but a stronger
woman to endure by sides while this month she might take the load; our dreams
in 3D our screams accusing me so artsy so flippant inside; to imagine those
wings as once so perceptible and now so drained or so incorrect—this film
replaying heinous frames or tendencies so liquidated where change has lost its
paradox.
I
arise early mornings at particular routines while found sipping coffee and
sparking a clove; those days so sick in you to imagine another ravishing you to
become traumatized; to formulate a plan if but this situation we’ll open this ocean
to ships; our brown tides filled with sediments at something too plentiful to
decipher; a man with deep pains or a woman with treacherous agonies to realize
we have been less than perfect.
