by
silent whispers a soul filled with convergence to sudden upon an epiphany: such
inmost remorse those wild ass splinters while sawn in desperation. surefire
sawdust or bed fevers with alienation like sky-mites; such a coffin, promised
by womb, a man races to outlive his misfires. too coarse to die, too pathetic
to live, with utter rage in its stomach; tender blues such treasured aches, a
man finds a reason to pity his life. so unwrapped or devastated, only once a
soul loves like it's easy: those aeipathy desperations the metanoia of
abandonments such cursed aliens—at guts torn in reflexive fire or pure courage
to walk fury.
I can’t
locate you or detract our excellence while it’s become our misery; so nameless
while designated a flame where a soul lives in shadows: too close to fit or too
afar to touch while something fierce hits pavement-hearts; too uncured to claim
doctor, or too familiar to find solace, insomuch a soul is partway deceased.
fiddling
a drumstick or demanding perfection while to pardon the mistake, his existence;
a bastard soul a faulty foundation so complex as to some whit of destruction;
or flyleaf fiats as commanding some myth, in like manner to arise as some gift:
mere filthy rags or faces contorted where Job was most humility; torn so clearly,
as to ask, Was it a dear answer?
as unbalanced creatures or so together while we decode The Great Remedy!
in anguish or raw fatigue a soul fasted for five days; so bipolar, so demented, to again adore its famished aches; the doctor was so steel-like those rooms scraped his brains or its furnace was surefire destruction; too much thunder, as God upon a nib, too disastrous to claim wholesome!
