Cultic Garlic

We know a place, a gardenia as omen, this person as friend; to paint night-skies, this difficult task, while to capture those nuances. I remember beaches, where mother belched, requesting a spirit of fright; that driven purpose, as deep communion, invoking ghosts. I aim to drift—pure associations, seeping into psychic realms; that space of dungeons, as faraway mystics, channeling cryptic souls; while foreign this touch, an intimate friend, to pardon infractions. I hate us not, though bidden to caution, this addled soul. I cried about heaven, to find it near, this chorus of minds. I wailed about fires, those inner cubes, while trekking an otiose path; this common feeling—that weathered furnace, those volts with purpose: an all night affair; a series of friends; our secrets provoked; to see for countenance, that inner leap, as to respond immediately.  (This isn’t reaching enough).  I know a soul, wrestling with ravens, courted by demons; that pure resistance, as to anger imps, where colors shade perceptions; that far to soul-graves, to court an incent, at once a nuisance to mirrors; that inner stranger, purposed for torments, or more, a vehicle for obedience: the more for righteous, the deeper those scars, where hell shows its face. I know a soul, summoned for this life, at woes concerning the dead; to flash a bulb, at sudden a section, as to peak within self: this grave event, as to lose virginity, this field placed in soil; to harvest for crops, this sickle to roots, picking as to unveil illusions; that debt for souls, carved in rocks, a bulwark for minds. I know a friend, that wouldn’t come near, for I invaded secrets; as torn apart, flickering through darkness, as mad as legions; that inner doom, this gloomy weather, that thing serving as outcasts. It shouldn’t be life, a wealth of feuds, where love dies the course of time; while daughters watch, piecing together facts, wondering of both mercy and forgiveness; that is, if mother doesn’t, than I shouldn’t—this space that will come to haunt us; for art is passion, this thing of chakras, as we dwell in winter dregs; that welkin stare, converted by chaos, where spirit runs amuck. I know a brain, at odds with souls, while daily at war for God; that inner presence, that holy excursion, those times at sudden moments; to shift atop stations, filled at emptiness, or conjuring up this holy infusion; to see for self, this pasture about intellect, where thoughts fail to capture. I know a soul, filled with awe, sending blessings from afar; this sworn prophetess, to mingle with mystics, at times a haven for souls; that murky flame, that trembling palm, that intervention. It mustn’t be pain, as seated in ignorance, as long to live this rain; where tears are vain, as opposed to segues—digging deeper into this adventure.