I can’t
utter such summits or sing bleak lullabies or dance while no one is alive. I need
this principle it comes through humans it salutes by heart exchange; the
railway is motion this circle is electric while I felt a dream into a scream;
such melting magic or mystic daughters or mothers such struggle to become
better; our terrible minds our treacherous souls while we invoke diameters; so
perpendicular or such richness while Agony said something in thoughts; long range
sentences, or internal memories while this might sound redundant. I can’t utter
more than love but love is so unfair while it confines us to boxes; indeed, a
bit loud a bit acrimonious or so bitter it acquires a certain taste. But passion
is lethal it reigns in spirits where I have met my upper projections; or beauty
to eyes or gorgeous so precious in a place so overwhelming: to imagine
thoughts, as originators of behavior, while I might not need to sacrifice for
intimacy; so to say love is to cast boundaries while we might need those supportive
boundaries.
There are features flaming through deaths, a lark's wings
so fraught by color.
She drifts—to infuse a type of blues and smiles form
to
burn and savor.
I do not love her, to grip for tentacles, as visible humans.
We
adventure new moons, kindly at love, so frustrated.
I met
her coming into birth, to see her come fumes, to dance
forgotten in flames.
Such by spawned ink, to utter, “So close if there.”
Young to flames to reappear!
It was
like pain to read your memoir while I loved the ghost in the writer.
I
can’t go far enough in needing your writing if but to escape. I can’t speak
wide enough in such expansion while exospheres are straining for clarity. The mind
is somber the soul is sullen or spirit is inspirited where spirit is cousins
with sorrow; this heavy world those unhealthy examples while we try desperately
to attain freedoms; the magenta skies the aurous future at something he could
not trust; to have us or to winter us while passion is slung asunder.
Could
those eyes resist into fury or bliss to know with edges this curse in men while
we have designated eternity?
I scratch
where blood trickles the wound has become a cesspool—our concrete looks
different our winds are emotive while pieces descend into us.
I will
leave those parts to become something mathematic at aqueous departures—those fretting
indexes this battle with elegance or our days reminiscent of something unique.
