Tugging

Our weather has changed, where something tugs, this type of heaviness; as wanting in joys, as demanding attentions, to wonder about what she wants: this crying shame; this locomotive; this angel stranded to earth; if time is gentle, that plague of lights, those bars shattered to winds; to see her name, sprinkled in parts, electric through turmoil. I considered us, this casual losing, for prose was fluid; to see your heart, as floating upon waves, to cringe realities: that dying feeling; that turn through pikes; that hour we gained; to feel such purpose, as to love with such fervor, as to refuse to unlatch admirations: this charm by souls; this place we died; that second of rebirths: our gardens plush, filled with similes, as too this space of metaphors: that harvest through graves; that knell by signals; this right to love for arts: that crooked grin; as causing angst; while spirits visit from within; this earth of pains, as living by ghosts, this sacred heaviness. I cried our cage, as feeling correct, while to run through caves; to remember your essence, as laughing through sorrows, a room of yearly strangers; to come to terms, to accept this light, where hell passes through brains: that second to pause, filled with stars—that tear to drop a petal. It tore a soul, to read of pains, by vision this art of trees; to count for branches, while to know so little, to intuit through facial lines: this death of souls, to plague our futures, as both to let go and remember: that hectic sail; through Poseidon’s sea; to realize he could of waited; but why for arts, this fatal transition, to fathom that something was lost: this deep regard; this inner sensation, as to never lose; for love is lively, shooting through waves, this sky filled with diamonds: that heavy feeling; as killing innocence; where such is required to feel. It’s quite for selfish, this dance we sing, while to ballet in cages: that broken earth; that inner crevice; those moments at war with self; where something tugs, while to wonder about why, whereas, we see: this feral nature; as wild for riddles; to want not but to receive; this outer resonance, this ink of depression, this word by design as taboo. I meant for love, to sail to prose, to becoming nonchalant; for wisdom spoke, as to imagine rain, where fathers must to ponder; this world of love, as fuel to flame, while grit comes from letting go; to give to spirits, this welkin grain—our souls to tests.