We see
brown eyes, we are uncertain, but Love appears lovable; such filth in closets
such fears or harassments while inside the brain is liquid; more liquor to
arrange faith asking for
permanence—this
horrible detention this anti-Herculean flux to imagine sameness into its
deaths; so rhapsodic when words were novelties or women were too ecstatic to
ruin skies—our
embolden
caves our reverie sex when two come to existence—those furious pains those gray
elements while existentialism became a haven; our woes our pragmatic complaints
while Love
would give a damn;
pure steepness as never this color while daughters are entertaining guitars;
such sweet innocence such dear delights where one says: “She can do not
wrongness”; horses gallop they run into seas the battle is hectic—this pain in
flowers to stand so close while a rose bled Jesus; so polite to me, this
sickness, where I saw you differently; it was anodyne for us, it was sheer
misery or joys, while aching was such raw pleasure; our souls forbidden our
minds traveling, as if we melted into pure elixir; those cuffs for Yahweh this
anti-element while too disciplined to win Rachel.
I sip,
smoke and brush teethe.
I was
laughed at, taken for a joke, prior to this manifest.
We gnaw
wormwood, we churn palmer wood, the forest is screaming about Jesus. By Holy
Ghost to fire into cities while adoring this end result; those edges those
boarders while
marginalization is
a language; but a glance to hate you, but dusky feelings to love you, or but
something we need to escape you; cyclonic embarrassment, or depleted enthusiasm,
while Love was so understandably gorgeous; as a man like no other or a creature
splayed in traffic where one turned for the wrong reasons—but hell to them and
hell to me for Love just found me interesting.
I’m
astonished by fabric as to dine on whining or to feel indestructible while I met
a kindred soul; such hilarious agonies or peppered strata while Jerusalem is so
temperamental; those arts or remedies to weigh existence on a sign—those sagic
Debra’s those flaming nights while adoring you became ill-gotten; for Love is
anguish or Love hates those images, for our world is buried beneath unnatural
debris; so overpowered—we must seek memories, while a person’s therapy depends
upon unraveling parents—or listening by inner suggestions.
