We
cater to soil we exhaust our morals so complete in the fairest creature.
It was days hearts flew
so renewed in burgundies so casual it was perfect; our befriended chateau our benighted
undergrowth or courage to sprout once again; to cherish to conflict to converse
at turnpikes; such incandescence such roaring fires our passion our sentiments
our patience; these elements by sensitivity those flowers unborn or souls desired
disastrously.
Let’s
imagine our craving something in essence too devoted to sense turmoil; so
inclined to die first, if but to hush weather, where titillation becomes permanent;
but not our eyes but not our bodies rather some principle felt prior to its
explosion.
While
watering our ethics we inclined to hypothesize insomuch as to unknit human
instinct; our beautiful skies our terrible-fantastic as never such compassion
in an animal; this monster-battle those leviathan beliefs or such undertones we
rebuke indifference.
Our carefree stubbornness
our rectangular proclivities as answered in everything censors us!
Such otherness by privilege
in a mind ignoring its rain while this must accrue anomalies.
The pond ripples our
minds rivet our song is wistful; those fairytales we compose or more longing
flames where Adored repurchases those first few kisses; those laudable souls as
abandoned to right-actions where but a fraction become internal solace; at
haste that rush or mornings sunken low at a brain funeral; wainscot frustration
or surreal occasion to value something seated in stillness; to imagine if pain
matters or to imagine an open acceptability or to wonder about this need for
monopoly; as never to contend it but rather to examine it, especially, in this
beastly environment.
We want so much where our
ancestors dealt with such silence while something is undiscovered.
Pure raging bodies such
deep moving sulfur at lava emotionality; so captured while wending those
rethought tunnels or found in something unconventional; but to have as one’s
essence to envelope as one’s completion in such a passion becoming unsteady.
We
must confess a given truth where if plural one is inclined to withdraw—or to work
harder.
We have lost something in
this war of daisies thereinto such sweet aspirations.
