Moods
shift through winds—to have lived as holy, this nature under siege; that too
far mansion, our terror of a latch, as veiled in chaos. It’s that inner
flogging, that constant patrolling, as to chastise self; where pressure builds,
concealed in tension, to become eczema. We sigh to laugh, filled with flowers,
as a friend to mourn; for there’s a spell, for feeling goodness, this thing to
attain; as our river shifts, through inner islands, a cave for every tear. It’s
a raspy voice, a sullen charm, this casual art form; to mend through grays, a
center detached, as searching for sympathy. Oh for moods, as antisocial traits,
to marinate in feelings; this sky of sorrows, as forfeiting dreams, as
receiving chaos. It couldn’t be real, this gated community, our public square;
to know for liberty, as to sale a potion, refusing freedoms. Oh for moods, to
shift a stomach, as to enter a maze; where all is terror, wherewith are scars,
a system under siege. He couldn’t see it, as it churned through worlds, while
demons laughed. It mustn’t be—a sea of ripples, this outward angst; but so it
is, to tremble softly, tripping through dimensions. Our core is riddles,
streaming through traumas, as utter reality. Alarms screech—as to echo a heart,
flickering through brains. We wish as to see, this inner peace, to find this
flux. It couldn’t be life—wherever it lives, spinning upon a crux. He found for
patience, this endless valve, digging at a wound; to feature as torn, these
awakened stars, this inner ocean; as born to fly, a web of tales, purposed as
symbols. It couldn’t be, as this fervent fever, these periods of turmoil; but
ever it is, such addled measures, to maintain strength.
