the blue sun the red moon these
reminiscent stars. upon a piano such soft tears while surrendering to
atmosphere. by hurt or struggle born entrenched in sadness. such genetic
splices or un-sung hereditary aches, while loathing a father’s story. the
tellers are chanting or horizon has died, such sore rumination. to have love as
it’s defined where we feel so enthralled: those notes on wings those clouds
like rainbows, if so close it stirs immortality. but sharp insecurities such damning,
damaging insecurities, aside awesomeness and autonomy. I have admired her, such enriching
prowess, but it was its appropriations. such power in souls such avenue
blizzards if but an uneasy sunrise. to look at a woman, while feeling weird, as
to sense, if intentional, such pleasing, prophetic, or isolated comforts; to
reason as a leftist, to need something such as it disturbs, where such intimacies
are nonexclusive. the dangers we
exist. those portraits we scissor. or spikes we eat, as if times are shards of
calamities. our masks we wear, or
wore. our permission to put our lives in jeopardy. if but to spend money for
our economy. it’s similar in love.
our confined dungeons. where we’re granted permission to continue the hurt. as
social persons living desolate patterns or a few determined to generate some
happiness. these rare creatures, as we sense afflatus, everything comes to its
impasse—where existence is challenged, or habits peter-out, while it was once so
exhilarating! I imagine a child is a
dream, while awfully enigmatic, plus, such incredible milestones, frustrations,
or feelings within where the parent is quite ashamed. the joys in life are few, while we accept
our inheritance, where those few niches become our reasonability.
if
but to find the ultimate. if but to know we have arrived. while our design is
to seek greater experiences. our days searching pictures. our nights cuddling,
or not! or our support system seeming our complacency. but manage we must, as realized souls, if
but to locate centeredness: to reminisce on animalism, or to look over at a
child, while we often speak the ideal!
