Never
such crises; for oh this life, as scrambled in a blender; to mesh essence, to
unlatch demons, this psych in his brain; as broken glass, filled with mirrors,
a thousand reflections. I saw him at a séance, for this was self, as splendid
as glory; to hear him in office, to utter for swans, as captured by demons. He
lost it all, to rebuild fevers, this symbol of faith; and I knew a woman,
flooded with spirit, the wife of an unseen; to scream mercy, a terrible
heartbeat, this urge of frequencies. I see us chiming, this particle of
touches—this tender infusion. It’s ever us, to recruit a nation, ever at arm’s
length; for this is reach, to cup a soul, sobbing over mercy. She gripped his
guts, from mere a hunch, to know the esoteric. Its cultic rights, as innovation, to
charge a colony; as given life, a bit too furtive, sipping red wine;—I loved
her to see us, a rasp to a mind, chiseled from energies; whereat is grout, the
vision of temples, to usher forth a boomerang; for something lives, to call it
by name, this linguistic error; as more a furnace, to know for measures, as one
always there; and afar dearly, to come for aid, to push the melancholy. We
cried the nights, looming in a circle, a sphere of vibrations;—I couldn’t
sleep, to misuse thoughts, as so far removed; and Chi heard, to filter through
ripples, to chase this dream. It couldn’t be us, as fire to water, boiling in a
cauldron; and still it is, fully the fusion, as a vision to a squirrel. We’ve
trekked the mortar, to forgive for blight, as to witness such fear; but life be
good, this entity of jewels, featured in dementia; as internal waves, to
challenge each word, the crevices of clout; where this is hardship, to see it
manifest, a series of cultic thoughts.
