Have I listened to the Unspoken?

We sail into clearness as sudden upon a rainbow if but to redeem our wilderness.

Times have sung the beloved where dreams painted images into something too vague.

an enigma to me but brackets teasing while nothing I possess is tangible; so surreal at misery so cursed at blessings where word-magic is mandatory; those angelic oceans at calming seahorses while deeper into dungeons; to adore forgivingly or misused for forgiving where one takes kindness as something lazy; this need for cruelty this wrenching fragment while we desire something compassionate; this sagelike ambition as it wrestles with a primitive soul while gentility gives mixed atmospheres.

I was seeking immortality this reasoning hex while existence isn’t made that way.

We exhaust ourselves we insert ourselves and often without permission; to explore something peaceful to ask softly, indeed, to venture into fantasy; this reaching element to feel that younger person while adrift or soaring at pure whispers; those gesticulations or this sky-scream at dreamy luminosity; but a soul so linked to souls while feeling driven away from souls.

Such wildfire such ravishing flame to listen close enough to sense something off-course.

I see symmetry or chaotic balance into memories formed through years; such fuel to speak such screams as they appeal while gray-nights seem so clear; our dearest dessert our winnowing deadzone, as winking at ourselves; to feel so elated to have made a breakthrough where others are uninterested; this perfect void this disconnect into emotional arithmetic.

Those fuchsia leaves into auburn summers at wails into intellectual passports—to gallop into those hopes, those deep feelings, while we often fret a disconnection; those inner televisions to have closeness while jibing at our creative selves; a fiesta of madness or abracadabra while walking naked in our mirrors; those fastidious nightmares so embedded in our mind-bones as something horrible and determined to ruin innocence.

It has been some time, sipping epiphanies, re-lacing wings or deceiving this interior; realizing compartments, or devastating self-reflection, while wondering concerning those gardens we feed our intuitions; such a vatic surprise our fantast guts while one might feel spotless.

I did not know love, its opus, or its song—while feeling like one knew love. This constant confliction this need for understanding while this epitome grows higher. Such thetic dogma or unclaimed virtue while one might need to listen closer.