Under Construction

I have inner demons those clangoring caricatures those irritable flutes; to sudden into moods so spatial a condition while captured in a split instance; such holy compartments to adventure into humanness while filled with kenosis; to imagine something hidden while one was ecstatic where realization made all good things horrible; our dreams destroyed our futures changed where a person roams about making wishes; such reaching plunder a soul upon concrete while happenstance is beating its ass; those cedar roots as they witness terror while a man becomes an irritable subject; something grows into a man something defensive while he suffocates his options; something like venom or roaring whispers while he hisses or shakes looking suspicious; he feels defunct as if losing existence while so sane he must be alone; he stumbles to liquor he negotiates with Jesus where he pleads with deaf ears; something critical takes form a particular knowingness where a man loses essence; but swamps to leap but a broken latch or pastures made of regrets.

Just because it is silent, where owls are screaming, it does not denote an absent observer.

I left a prompt nearby it seems so astute but no one is paying attention; such outward notice in a state of affairs where many become self-conscious; in a world made easy, this thing by chemistry, where we make quick decisions; such absent seriousness while categories are twofold—those I would marry versus those I might tangle with; but ever this person this seeking vessel while separated inside; this ancient conundrum where a man demands from one while putting up with destruction from another; those rhythmic creatures or too much for existence while veils are too impolite.

Those things we possess they exist dependently while we never imagine their souls.

It became destined this light glimmering those distressors too heavy. We were not prepared—life was so complicated, but we were playing a grownup’s pain; such grout or shame such crevice to maneuver or such inadequacy; as never quite close but bodies responding while too much familiarity prefaces disaster; so urged into situation, such nonchalant ardor, while a man desires something sensuous; so absent of conversation, our motion so unattached, plus, so tugged by multiple fires; this thing I relive this flame I examine while too restricted to break glaciers; those emotional dungeons this solitary space while too informed to enter those gates; our crux with pivots our demands so mediocre while never getting close to vulnerability; such sweet tartar such garnet wine while one has never known satiability. I seized my mind so besieged by cartoons while dear reflection shouldn’t hurt. A man comes close to flowers, he inhales pollen, and he feels like a bee; his mind is so proud his body is so loud where he gives full recognition. I drift into that moment while pondering pure love to release and shiver; but days were curtains, I never understood love, where most are given a healthy introduction. It seems esoteric it seems essence-like but it also seems that we create our nests; this harsh reality, at least for romance, where we wonder about those floating rumors.