—by wreckage a gorgeous sentiment by necklace such division or antiques splattered; those porcelain parts this scythe interior or blood sprinkled onto begonias; such acrylic soil while a kitten tiptoes at paws and tails our mink couch ruined; this talkative loveseat this place near walls while a monk is pruning weeds; those caterpillar eyes this sloth embrace while begging for clarity; such fumes and fragrances or oils and ottomans after birth and abortion; to have died this journey and arguing with ceilings while a chandelier was quite vocal; but a letter waiting but rules and regulations where such are ignored, heinously; those mauve eyes this older feeling where too much reality has clashed vestibules—
our daughter’s emblem our souls pensive or a mask that makes mother proud. this feral kite this observant wall while gramps saw lips moving; as never by interests but a blank man where the routine was ancient.
such
a cursed note-diary
or chasms in tragedy
where hell wears gentilities; such cactus-whisper those suffering webs as ornaments speckle misery; or a brighter and even scar
so torn or debated while Love is unaware of those responses;
such pure victims as deciding our reactions while determined it shouldn’t provoke so much;
our baffled cries this pomegranate smile
after something peculiar as unhuman; those fork feelings, this self-centeredness,
while exposing one to something that killed his mother.
through quiet pain
an existential luxury
while raking emotions.
to have adored arrangements while lusts defy reason so abandoned and kneeling at seashores.
those textures by such terror while one accuses by insanity; such disease and caricatures or rain and deceit at one rotating several lovers; to claim anxiety or angered for one spoke while another is just an enabler; so much adoration while one is dying to see tears and angle for sex; this room with secrets this welt with harmonies while used and casted aside when another arises; this old routine this yearly struggle or so close it fails to make sense; where this is life, our imperfect story, and we can do no wrong; our hours by phones or our screams to Christ or a pack of atheists manipulating Yahweh.
