most
equipped to struggle, this inherent position, such phones by mirrors or collect
calls. this man by spectrums this sepulcher so brilliant where a man is dying
unbeknownst to himself. those lists inside those feelings in space if but to
glisten while inconsistent. such goodness by badness such odors or raids where
the mind is a cathedral. those ghosts speaking skyfalls, this dream to adore
exclusively, or crystal-millponds reborn in time.
so
structured so early so restructured according to fate where propellers are
racing; such digging solutions such wild imbalance while we ignore our mates. I
was lost at battle rethinking reflection while jumping trains; the beauty was
acidic the curfew was abandoned—it was a day’s journey to fury. such incredible
essence or screaming silence so infused so mystic!
if those hours
accustomed to existence while so fueled to relive our futures; so creative
those trials so rigorous our deaths while a child might carry father; in
tortured gusts our mothers at stadium our lions afraid to exhale.
So
many screams after each heartbeat while so unborn!
So
shrouded by measures or so exhausted by fires as cruel resistant souls; those
needs or those taverns while filtered by persistence—to live so close to
expiring; but science or dust, but dirt or ashes, with this penchant for
resurrection; to have eternity to shimmer by uncertainty or to gaze so
longingly.
Those bewildered
eyes those engraved torches after so much or such tortures; to cloak a wolf or
to nurture a hyena where feeling ecstatic is not an inheritance; those bulbous
emotions those unbound frustrations while so cursed or blessed to live it out.
our compass
but
selective, our souls
but demonstrated,
while so abandoned to adoring fiction; this life by speculation,
our
greatest wisdom by aphorisms, or midnight love seeming blurry;
as
close competitors or morning outlets while Janet in claims is grieving; such
comfy beliefs so needed to survive
while
each belief is interrogated; this pain by replacements or this stubborn tug
where dying is unlikely—for incarnation is reward;
such
folklore demands, into crystal lakes, at caves too near to disappearing;
this
wilderness existence, this shaman island, or scorpions for lunch; such craving
for blue moons
or
caged by jasper suns
to
live so close to refurbishing religion; but an inlet
into
memories where actualities are so indebted while agony paints knowledge.
