I belong to self, for nowhere to run, pitching quarters at a
psych. We see for pain—I’m somewhat there, a muse to him-self. This complex
self, stressed for fires, this inward Zen; akin to no-man, a friend of all
pains, this gavel slamming his future. I’m not a cliché, as somewhat a
cliché—this filthy war. We knew for passion, this ability for tears, this
hardened soul: I watched her dance, a scarf as a gown, enchanting us with
India; this dying woman, this living Hindu, this vague intrusion. I couldn’t
love her—but somewhat there, a fleet of fantasies; to possess passion, the
pride of men, to humble a soul—this biblic mandate, this skyward affection, to
lose it with a child. I belong to us, thus, the peering eyes, perfecting my
definitions; as aphorisms for rain, as no place to go, as lost to a plethora of
roadmaps. Winning’s a miracle, as bricks build a fortress, this faraway castle;
to mingle with mystics, as yearning our lives, to finally kiss a palm; as so
far gone, as so far behind, stressing over a finish line; forever this daze,
this crazed feeling, this maze of faces. I fell from grace, this chase for
vengeance, to return slanted; but ever his mind, pushing towards illusions, as
graphed in fantasies. Time is lonely—affected by passions, as longing for a
friend—so born his soul, this inner cavity, searching for outside winds. We
lost a family—something so precious, never to bat an eye—so what is our
measure! This life is normal—a grimace as a friend—this inner torment; to vacuum
love, as lost forever, this weathered event. I belong to, Love—this heart of
caves, this flutter of attentions; to mold a friend, as to watch for deaths,
this mental cliff; as perfect a turn, this fiat of faith, this fever of
pictures.
