But odd
characteristics such to adore sight to soul or brains to fantasy; so unexplained
or so captive where we are not concerned; so bizarre so incapable around lakes
or fires; to amuse a mirror, or to codify a phone while terror has seized our
interior.
I was
with flame this treacherous device while so timid and beautiful; such a
terrifying charm where reality is indicted and set to stand trial; such sweet
music, reality was found guilty, on over a dozen accounts of treason.
Where have you died, those prickles
or delusions, where the body tricks its brains?
It was
early those affirmations which made it eerie while we rarely take such leaps.
But over
the hill in a tiny hut the most terrific illusion.
While years are
calculated, where time sits in stillness, but we acknowledge night and day;
those suns and
moons, those crops and harvests, while most fall at love for a week.
It must
be sickness, something evolutionary or delusional, while one absorbs sensation;
but beauty is capturing, where beauty means unlikely, while it never meant
normal.
I am having
thoughts, such serious emotion, where I see pure unsuitability; this dynamic
concern, while intruding softly, or bribing the doorman; if but to enter, and
now the gatekeeper, to center the palace feeling unimpressed: those deeper
shifts, those pleasant overtures, or moods from some other region.
But how much is
given to prove a heart is ticking?
Such
pure affection, albeit, chaotic, but such heinous sincerity; where wires are
like vines or sinning is like trespass while love is precious inconsistencies;
our subsumed minds, our exhumed feelings, while I sit at a gravesite sipping
memories. Those ponds so endearing this hellish insistence while inside deaths
are negotiating; this music of literature, this castle so low, while misery was
seeking company; those palatial palms, by a hideous intention, where a man
finds arms in suspicion. But over those mountains, a sensible fire, but sorely
unadorned.
We have lived enough,
this war of romances, acute and deceased and living in new arms; so much
reneging or so many vows while knowing they have yet to solidify; but
eyes are bubbly or souls are enchanted, for one is so determined to keep us
smiling; but operas that way, or an opus this fashion, where one is manipulating
interior whispers.
Such plush
carpeting, such rubescent furniture, a chandelier and an antique desk; this
chair has seen souls, this ink pen has yearned to recite where a strange
feeling permeates the house. Indeed, a new sink, or a rebuilt shower, or a new
bed. But something lingers, this spirit-essence, while two are gazing into each
other.
