"ropes
dangle irons are steamy so much a dream. I awaken with a yawn, they seem old,
they classify us. morning thunder, such masked phantoms, Love reached me by
voice. we exchange pleasantries. Love was an orphan. I tend with much care.
such mastery such cautiousness, as a person would adore a bonobo … such
freedom, it can never disagree, unless caged longing for mercy. by sad souls in
sad moods as exclaimed for several encounters. a mind to its appraisals a gut
to ripeness while harvest is desperate for workers. gliding in, sinning in, or
gathering inwardly. I can’t run faster I can’t return faster it kills to
suffocate without a final death. it just lingers it just destroys as it
decimates a piece of its breathing. those tales about her, those souls
searching one last tryst, or her anguish in losing a great horizon. such myriad
pains at some bridge where a soul must leap — at flapping wings at tethered
knots while a soul would break down skies. a man is a harp or a cello or a
viola. I was sicker those grays, as abused by reality, where it was subtle such
agitation. I awaken as some creature, I bathe, pick out an ensample, if an axe
might deliver me from terror.
"nights are terrific such lush dusky
beginnings — a phantom sits with time. such darkness in a soul, she encourages
her soul, while sitting without motion. she palms a tree or carves a leaf with
many cutters raising for opportunity. too hectic to explain, actions are their
seasons, while giving more is often met with dejection. sour dying or sheer
being so discussed as a product — of miseries or sadness or bottles curled into
a corner. by gambit such daring chess so thin we mistaken a love for pain; some
physical creature some need for punishment if but to rejuvenate. the excellence
of penance those walls screaming alms some curse we were given. humans as woodwork
or feelings as brushwork upon a valor plum. those masked weavers our soul-fire
our metallic swords — to wallpaper agonies or to collapse at her toes, so much
need for Our Eucharist."
