it
was night-hour, she awoke speaking by dreams: I gave her holy water. she trusted
fire or fell asleep where she never spoke to it. I flame in fire so divorced
from normality where most are leaping unbeknownst. such frequency or blueberry
tears our faces made muddy. I would die to notice any inconsistencies where you
are revving harshly; to adore this way or to love like justice as sorcery
becomes pure energy. I know a lady, but pure locomotion, so soon into a
delicate blast; our minds drifting, as headed to pleasure, while everything is
delusional; our lakes made by fire, our creeks made by flame, while families
are holding to illusions; to hate a man and giggle, while he was so filthy, but
Love is a maniac. into scissoring ties or cleaving to stupidity where if he
never sees it, it never happened. I chime with ghosts a born survivor while
flourishing in spirit; an account for rubies a swoosh into mountains while we
monitor concentration. I speak riddles, unless the fire is sparked, where some
are speaking in vacancies; but Love was striking and Love was in-gentle while a
soul wanted a bit more; this feud in us this caliber in us where one must be
extra careful; those rubescent tentacles, as sensing our taxes, while Love
sensed balance—or more control or fevers at tornadoes to grip, lock, and die
for resurrection.
by
boxes some persist at interest rates so societal into prisms; or eyes with
glints or graves with hints such graphic pits—to have lived in you such
personal satisfaction while one person spreads enormous joy; to have agony or
to console chaos where holding you seems reassuring. born privacy or angst with
legends too inexperienced—those literary souls at richer existence while I hibernate
in ignorance; but a ransomed soul, mercy or illusion, to sit so closely to
faith. it spoke of futures or dynasties or legendary orators; to have never
read allegories as pages become exercised it seems too complex to comprehend; our
wisdom repeats its meanings, or knowledge is exclusive, insomuch the mind must
slant, the winds must republish, where the fire must be assisted. such
wilderness twigs those million-year stumps or those deciduous leaves; so tender
we ache or such warmth we cry where Love asks, “Are things ok?” by inner divisions
to exist as incomplete or to become such a contended witness; such vacancies
inside such reaching or surfing while waves are sporadic inside; such
capricious goodbyes into frequencies bestowing one’s requiem; as minds becoming
orbits such traveled mortuaries so challenged for surviving; or something
deeper, to reclaim home by helping a dear reflection as something to redeem the
broken flute.
