We
converse as spirits, this inner communication, this vibrant vibration;
wherewith, are scars, even as measures, as to determine powers; for what is
pain, but earnest segue, traveling through gate-lights. It mustn’t be us, for
this brief meeting, where powers swarmed our hearts. Oh to never touch, as
enchanted fully, with something beyond measure; this inveterate glee, fraught
in sensations, this inner communication; for yet to yearn, thrown into
graphics, this magic of innocence. We give to perish, as dead-alive, to soar
with giants; this fuse of visions, to master darkness, to realize this dilemma;
as born to friction, such changing moods, to embrace a nation of mystics. It
couldn’t be purple, as seen as turquoise, these burgundy eyes. It cries to
speak, this inner language, founded in concentration; to outlive death, though
courted by death, as death is segue; wherewith, is fire, this sudden flash,
preceded by a black force. We lie to hide, this inner dwelling, as confused
about life; herewith, are troubles, this outward lantern, this fearless
countenance;—too much deception, this crime of passions, to excavate a dark
light; but what are we, as formed in images, as forgetting there was life? It
couldn’t be real, this psych in grains, as aflame in sorrows; to purchase chi,
through mere this gift, saturated in concentration; to dance gently, as
morphing violently, as to charter a point. I used to laugh, a bit confused,
ashamed of not knowing; as now to ponder, as lost to souls, pulling at a psych;
to know for dreams, this wretched power, as this core giving life; to bend
through waves, these caves of anger, as needed through breaking points. It
mustn’t be us, as to enchant such souls, infatuated with psychotics; for our
points are shattered, to go to this place, as to live this essence; hereby,
unbroken, to push passed limits, to see both dimensions; to do as you would, as
yearning for traumas, to rescue this fallen self; as to become insane, guided
by psychs, as to learn to manage as fully gray. It couldn’t be real, this fever
of souls, captured in a subtle nuance; to perish insanity, as to rise so
sanely, that closer to digesting mystery; wherewith, are eyes, to claim for
perfect, a bit afraid.
