by value to assess our wrath if but to die for seeds—such luxury or better those rules as children in skies. the lone dog those mountain eyes such panic to have lost destiny. by shadow to converse as beings in guts—the flute the maniac the relaxed doctor. such soberness by memories, pure condition by anguish, while we ossify language. such fury of the rose such abandonment of the tulip where loving you was once easy. by freesia passion or matchbox contemplation where a wild thought strikes encouragement. as gifts for giving those illusions while we utter not a sound; to sense one astray but relish in obedience where something is quite harmful. I was a lad listening to elders—their relations were puzzling. I’d place tablecloths or sit on plastic—the couch was covered. such nervous realities such coarse feelings while it must be God’s Will. like a jackknife or a steel jacket we appear to vanish; mid conversation such flowing rhythm to sudden into silence. as looking at our portrait, trying to support the author, but something feels askew; so out of line, so jagged where we tiptoe upon glass emotions. to hide somewhere or to sense irritation while attempting to appease insanity. a man is crazy to angelize a mistake where one makes excuses for tragic behavior. so bitter seeming sweet or unfastened seeming sturdy where a soul’s linchpin is made of hay. it dies by reasons, where a person sits, as realizing something unbecoming is taking place: the need of the lover, the wealth of the impoverished, as a soul holds heart heaving!
the
curse of the honest soul. such feelings made feathers. while we cleave a pillow
tightly.
I can’t explain it. such fretted, re-filtered fragments.
those souls they watch they panic. so fragile in an instance such power in invisibility. pure steel immersed in glass with a pigeon chiseling its coffin. (but Love knew rubies or Love ate helium while Love floated into turmoil.) the underbelly of passion so neat within chaos while seams unravel. by struggle is its way by courage in its delusion where one knows another’s horizon. our lava is our dungeon our miseries are all joys while discomfort becomes our zone. such a tender asylum, the soul is shuffling, we would rather exit the streetcar. to have undergone silence as it sits a moment unveiling desperation. but a circle of ideas but a man to his ideal or a woman to her distastes; to teeter while tethered a rope thin but sturdy.
