No
richer fuss those horizons those screams; too captured by rare traits but too
original.
Too
infused to win too calculated to trust or too plural to adore.
Hours
are passing where cloves are sparked while energy probes its captives; but a
silent couch or a noisy furnace or floor-feelings tucked under wood; such
baffling lights such hypo-magnets where we wander through features; to imagine
what snapped, indeed, such fracture, where emotion becomes energy.
I let go I believe, while
arguing for normality, affixed to private perception.
We
meet at times those mental creatures where nothing seems to matter. I stumbled
there, where life becomes comical, while a soul loses innocence; such
fantastical fillers where a life is empty or often unrealized; pure
actualization or but a man suffering for a queen; those lost regions this
mental shaft while woods have never been so relaxing; our carved understanding
our beings in the moment while I beg to differ.
At
times those unfounded projections those endless foibles.
I notice receptacles,
especially, where pain is harsh, while one is groping at realities; but
carefree adaptation, in a world by censures, where it’s better to love early:
our habits forming, unless demented, we tend towards innocence. (To outwit
fantasy or to become music, so cursed by misappropriation).
While
we age, most things lose texture, where humans seem more compelling; or basic
delights but carnal concerns a few determined to rush through their youth; such
a process while many are living, indeed, many are walking through natural
gradation; a loving dimension a paradoxical element while trying for destined; an
interior officer or contempt for sullied ethics while, nevertheless, looking
closely at one’s weaknesses; as mere machines or memory oceans—to ask—What occurs
when goodness succumbs to badness?
What aches in me this
ether feeling tackled by meditative inertia; this purposed drive this deadly
innocence those television traumas; as combed but uncombed or alive without
motion where the mind has oneness with its heart; such inadequate emotion, or
such self-interests conclusions, where even therapy is incomplete; (to never mention
our wings, to presume by desperation, or to run into poetic skies); such prose
in women such urge to survive while power is requirement: this lose is me, that
one fever, or those many flames.
