Tell
me locations into seafaring eyes as we dine upon fury. Tell me methods and
periodicals or articles split by motion. Tell me it gets better while we die
where hope is a glass of blood. Tell me darkness unveil its source as we cleave
to insanity. Indeed, tell me lies and keep many secrets and when time comes
disclose our universe.
The
seagull was nigh. The banister was wobbly. The chair was mahogany.
Into rendezvous or renaissance
or something prestigious; those inside galleries—inside our brains—while we
muse upon skylights; such deeper atonement such rich abrasiveness while one
grades our literature. It is an antiphon or more an anthem so caged in by
silence; such inward singing such sounds exploding where our condition is
taboo; to live encased in something unexplained while labelled or downsized; it
kills wilderness it explodes reasoning and it touches forbidden realms. This displaced
agenda those offhand remarks where one needs to know your name; this feather in
trunks this sneeze such mucus while arriving as one incomplete; but it wasn’t
by choice neither shall I forfeit it or ever but utterly that curse.
I
wrote love-letters; I tuned mandolins; indeed, I was evilly honest to self…so
quilted in time so excused through facts where most are not interested; our
biggest let down, inside pure grayness, realizing—many are unconcerned; such
devastation while I try desperately as needing this un-chanted negotiation.
The
ambiance is the apparition wherefore perception is cloven wires.
I
sensed familiarity into silence unbeknownst where Agony is intimate with
features; such unspoken rapport such intimate gallantry while disputing tacit
axioms; but a subtle convincing or a mincing of realities while I noticed
blackness; such monographed feelings, to need a kind of converse, where
something elicited is gratified. But we find seashells as echoing silence or
this whoosh in our brains.
Such credence in few such
radiant beauty in politeness such secret cultism; our milieu is phantom—our curse
is openness—our joys are closing gates; so many as apprentice where mastery is
required at terrible concerns. Such indigo plants such florescent deepness
while uncured or gunning into terrific ambiguity; at rich shrapnel at abyss-city
while losing something too dear to reknit.
It
would cave-in or soar gently right before his eyes; she would unchamber essence
or act so cryptic into crevices meant for intimacy; so numbing in us or so
curious in us while we never quite relate in us; a teardrop to sanity, an
abstract art, such nectar for one restricted.
