Precious Souls

It couldn’t be life, this seasoned amore, pictured in perfect mirages; this tile of sanity, trampled underfoot, where impressions bleed. I reach by chance, this fervent grave, at arts, this fevered enchantment; to know for woes, this furious heart, at times, a friend. It should be love, asearch for difference, than this thing lingering afar; that metal feeling, while curved to temperatures, at ease this wealth of pains. I know adventure, this inner resonance, poured into vibrant souls; to pause a daughter, to flurry a mother, while fathers sip at a distance. It could be us, tackling literature, at trails to establish landmarks; this angst of rhythms, purposed by chance, this excruciating silence; where mothers watch, to coddle daughters, as much this face of arrows. I live for souls, such powerful dimensions, as holding pistols at gravel; this ink of wails, this crown of queens, this spirit a man at deserts. I cursed an image, as found with curses, to imagine why hell befriends distance; this aching temperature, at torments a vest, while long to live this silence. It shouldn’t be us, as faraway pilgrims, at treasures to embrace our realities; but deeper this grave, as enslaved by spirits, at heart, this miracle.  We love with purpose, severed by insanities, to feel this existential life; as pure metaphysics, traveling hidden caves, at once, a visitor of self. It shouldn’t be art, this wake of souls, that far away from glory; to feel that heart, as sparkled aflame, this tension in grandmothers. Our time is near, to fix an issue, or rather, to exacerbate a problem; where all shall lose, while painted in pains, as to hate beyond reflection; but this is life, as stubborn as laws, this fixture tapping beneath our surfaces; where love is dead, as friends are foreign, while to sit alone as a perfect vessel. It shouldn’t be love, as to hate a human, but this is life; to adventure north, puzzled by sorrows, as adamant as wolves; that inner violence, to want eternity, to punish one for truths.  We shift through turns, while to meet insanities, pressured by this maze of reasons; where daughters ponder, as to see defects, as to question choppy logic. I’m soul to core, this war of brains, swatting at magic; to know for courage, this vestibule walk, reading walls that language; as churning sorely, while pulled asunder—to meet a thought; that seasoned amore, screaming in riddles, as slow to vanish; this flickering light, at courage this lark, while singing to terrors.  We hold to fangs, this comfort by lies, to depreciate others; to ignore facts, for lies are glorious, to construct perfect reflections; for this is threshing, as to demonize powers, while sleeping close to closets; this remarkable life, at wars with brains, ashamed of our morning mirrors; that space of pains, filtered by deceits, at treasures those sick realities; as giddy passions, become torrid hells, this place of detriments. I know a law, this thing of attraction, to meet ourselves in others; to yearn for right, while receiving left, this thing that was given; as time for again, to travel this space, screaming, “I’ll never change”; those stumbling blocks, perceived by others, where silence takes precedence; to ruin love, that love we chose, as life mangles a precious soul.