Dedicated to Perception, This Thing by Wings

I appeal to pash, that winter sensation, that mental effusion; as much to heart, as casual sins, this venial attraction: our haphazard souls; so pure of behaviors; while entertaining sin: this misconception; this human’s origin; that chance by art a science. I love redemption, this thought for needs, crafted by our dreams; to scream eternal, to something divine, as to realize, “It couldn’t be us”; as not exclusive, but at turns as partial, so alive this Poe mentality: to write forever, streaming through Kierkegaard, to stumble at Hume; but more to pash, those fabulous skies, those eyes—her soul—a miracle; to ponder that show, those vocal implications, as pictured through religion; this fanatic dream, as screened in contours, to recognize this goddess affair. I saw an angel, at struggles that rightness, where wrong is etching a portrait; to fall by stars, as accusing God, for deep that mystic furnace; where souls perish, to cherish rebirth, while activated through sins; this plural secret, to fidget and watch, adrift this cold weather. I loved a dream—this “No chance in hell,” as reality tumbled: that chill of illusions; that frightening beauty; that reason to silence pash. We bleed souls, scraping a carcass, infused by something vague: that gorgeous dimple; that marvelous terror; while madness is rehab: that rift through minds, as living this life, at motion this grave enchantment. I sought a storehouse, formed as bestial, to cater to that cure: those cryptic eyes, by rites an ocean, broken where they travel. Our pelagic souls, filtered by aquatic grays, searching the Quiddity of sensations; as death to life, or more life to death, by chance that power a charity; to want with measure, while never for lost, too perfect this perfect nightmare: our reason unshod; for childhood insanity; to hear her screaming for loyalties; while fast and free, concerned with self, puffing too much for love.