long
into morning romantic sequences or abstract aches; to have sworn to have
committed memories accursed for broken skies; a promise to alienation a grunt
against ostracism or made by skeptic resilience. what about love this
incremental devastation so pure so filthy so biblic? it would be souls or doors
or rugs. it would by javelins or knives or weeders—something to claim schism or
decorated catastrophe or billows into our cultured dreams. how would I cater so
lost into adolescence so scraped inside so many raw experiences? trekking
gravesites or unveiled while trembling or at a woman skilled enough to redeem
science. at times, such low weather, such flat feelings, where reality is
nuisance—or foggy landscape. by dirge for happiness. by sullenness for joy.
while acres are planted with souls. so many worms while it must matter so much
into their burial chambers. such kindred eyes such cold temper while peals
resound into memories. by virtue to gallop into a city of monsters if but to
save such fair fire; our wilder cries our stomach storm by bass or cymbal or
brass. it’s not too concerned or such it dies while souls must learn to
survive; so much by ferns or too lonely by weeds while wild strays confuse
justice. mere petals for breakfast, mere pain for lunch, or just about depleted
around dinner time.
