the
inly abode those screams such pagan merchandise; to sway in lines to curve a
curb while alive but dying. Love needed spaces or sure acceptance where nothing
could ever be wrongness; such freedom to exist with a dear promise as nothing
could sever the black moon. those bosky woods or mage minds so alert to
something asunder—those days it was special our lakes so golden our words made
by rubies; if but to adore as to beseech at crimes to prove desolation. I exit self, in order to locate essence, I seem
to fail; for so much is given, by ways to cherish, while the graveyard is
sensual sacrifice. we strike fury while meads churn so nocuous so un-behaved
where it feels something like fire—those houses aflame those cities
misidentified while chasing the midnight sun. or by a plash of beauty to need
to feel collected while conforming to one’s own hurt—as facing rebels or
surrendering one’s camel where mammon is a destitute arrangement—at eyes
laughing or emotion eroded while so dear to celebrity; so plumbless those
trenchant mistakes as a soul so flipped it starts to become internal distance—to
sail by faith or to wait forever while one becomes such stony walls: as magic
was sweet, it felt good to read, but it hasn’t changed not even an iota. as
such a creature where less than death moves nothing those refulgent trumpets;
so loud so unsteady while Love swore to reap where particles become misery. so
sea-girt or flippant something sassy something uneasy by incredible brushfires;
to fumble by thoughts or to act impetuously while another must discover,
address, or forgive. as ill-fated a star-crossed soul where loving someone
doesn’t necessity a pleasant experience; but to dare in forests as trekking
steep soil-beds, becomes a guarantee of how to realize determination: such
climbing, or aching, or scars!
