While
rain hits into this crevice those aches and chains or ghosts; to live freely to
sustain trauma while belief in humans becomes strained; those landscapes so
ancient this reality so bleak while rushing against torrent waves; to reinvent
relations to invoke a new pedestal while cherishing something that hates
itself; but kids at life but rules at obedience to soon depart from excellence;
such crazed lies while we debate meaning at something too crucial to determine.
Those sunshine raisins or those deep decadent apricots or realizing something
isn’t much fun anymore. It was galaxy time those ignorant eyes at such radiant
passion; this field-concrete those dark lovable pavements or such as fleeing
into majesty; our treasured arcs, our unlivable anxieties while so close it
hurts to exhale.
I blast
a clove, getting nearer to me, while edged or curious; it’s a thin line,
attempting to fathom, where no-one is quite interested; to walk the fields, to
battle the grains, or walking with a big ass tool; pushing calamity, feeling
your heart, while sick for one creature; it means something, it dies fiercely,
this claim, this madness, this castle—those hats; so cured there, so uncured
here, running or shunning or keeping balance; a mere gesture, but not the
gesture, but more the intention behind the gesture; so casual those cries, so
aloof its readiness, where a man can’t fly as high; this clove churning, this predicament
his brains, while one just needs to get in; at church-grounds or feeling
electric where it could be something incredible; this awe this feather this
feature—or sensing dissonance or requiring certain laws while most are dearly
chaotic.
While
rain hits, a nugget falls, those wolves are howling; so faceless so captured
while a complaint would cause laughter; such tension or such a belief where
many are not on board; a deliberate daughter a deliberate mother where a man is
forced to accept devastation; such smiles and placemats or curls and feelings
while into something benefiting itself; that robe of royalty those perfumes
where fits have crushed society; those victims, this root, where it becomes its
tyranny; at harsher tongues, accounted for nothing, where it burns, uproots,
and dismisses; but Love this way, a cure for fire, a dream in mansions—those eyes
at nights this emotion at guts while a man must share his legacy; this furtive
fever, this frantic flame, while furious and forgotten; at shores upon screams
and looking intensely while earth upchucks normalcy.
I blast a clove,
unredeemed but photogenic, a mere merchant in France; perchance our paradise or
perhaps our pleasures or penance and persecution; to feel so secluded while
walls melt and goblins wail—those backpack clutters or those gorgeous
sacrifices while a man has a lot to earn; forgotten firewood, or absolute
abstracts, while so enlove she begins to loathe you; this furnace-phone, or
this mirror-beeper, as to answer a calling and talk to yourself; luster or rut,
hut or house, roof or kitchen; so many gateways or so many shrines where a man
might let go.
