often,
I don’t wish to speak or placate,
for
rain pours into an aging creature.
I
do know its anti-life even theft,
but
angst builds into a storm or chasm,
while
a soul remains cut at its door:
if
but static joy where souls take repose.
our
minds filled with ecstatic repose
as
we live, die, or float we too placate.
such
stairs while unhinged, art’s door!
by
dragons or snakes or a new creature:
so
many pits we’re at skies or chasm
into
lockets too steep but adept to theft.
I
come by thunder, Form, pain or theft:
if
but to re-hinge by excellent repose.
such
fleeing or flying where art is chasm
or
dear rebuke, or so forced to placate:
our
screams in packets as one creature
so
abandoned while drumming at its door.
to
open by emotion such a closed door!
if
not to succumb by fatidic blue theft:
or
longing as some welted gray creature;
alas!
but a soul at struggle for repose.
nights
are days at something we placate,
if
but to seal, or entertain by chasm.
I
had loved or cursed by rainy chasm
those
sullen days at a screaming door
where
feelings adorn a need to placate.
I’d
lost soul so naked a mind by theft:
oh
for tension if it leads to sweet repose;
oh
for privilege such a haunted creature.
it
would be its jungle by its creature:
it
must be our brains as its chasm;
while
we kneel by anchor or cry repose.
such
prayers such a weeping old door,
if
to exist so free instead of brain theft,
where
medicinal tops are to placate.
wherefore,
a soul is a deep dark door
with
webs sewn into a drastic theft
where
most one can ask is to placate.
