the
lakes are upward. the days are sullen. if but to breathe as never it occurred. the
sun is mischief or a remedy through signs so prolific in its discourse. to love
like sages or to erase something critical if but to return into portals. those
bright pencils those effaced jewels while we carry horrific inclinations. you
influx with grace those petals in sin while so close to horizons. to float with
me to read into a million pains while something is pure or delicate. so embarrassed
with shame. so tortured by facts. if only father wasn’t ill. or better, if
mother would love but it seems fair, for a man disheartened an entire family.
so, Sun Lake cries, something is overpowered where something has surrendered
its ghosts: so astonished by diction if but an un-gray serenity if but to live
by the maxims we preach. those wants to exist those tables so clear while
interior trestles are caving slowly. so enamored with prose so sick and tired
where something seems imperfect. a man’s curse. such to unbolt his frontal
lobes. where more often men scream into a deeper prison. cuffs mean so little
to a man living his cage while he left Los Angeles carrying his mother and
father. so isolated. if but to launch. where many are struggling with the
golden goose. such tone, if but to polish something dying in its infancy.
needing anodyne. or choking spirits. or so pained it happened!
