Our
winds are howling, as I ponder articles, this omission of woes; peering at
pictures, this shelter of brains, internally loquacious. I considered love;
that needs for presence, while illusions run ramped; where daughters wrestle,
to figure our souls, this talkative havoc; as crossed with treasures, while
arched through lightning, reaching this murky contention. It sounds vague,
stepping through sludge, at tears this psych; or more this life, our beating
drums, trespassing lagoons; this puzzle of ventures, to see those eyes, sipping
mahogany wines: this warm feeling, while charged in spirits—our stomachs
enduring existence: this scripture of times, that mature outlook, as to rarely
like ourselves; to see it early, this needs for therapy, while plunging our fuses.
We touch it briefly, our animal blessings—this ability to reason through
trials; that mirror’s hatred, this saboteur nature, or our silence morphing
into rashes. We learn to let go, often forced to do such, as our minds endure
an overthrow: this radical shift, as horses to winds, galloping for triumphs:
this miracle woman, as to never know it, while chilly through valleys our
nights; to invade self, listening to homes, those creaking elements; that
buoyant imagination, as tiptoeing legacies, this man at tears to confess—this
disconnection, with something internal, as to write it off as illness. It seems
too simple, as to forget that smile, while racing towards proprieties. I heard a phantom, those lakes those
mountains—that tent midair to suffer: our ways as blizzards, to offset
securities, to dangle by particles of dust; this return to soil, while living
immortal—this chime by waves those hearts. I feel a shift, churning reality, that
leaping music; as reading symbols, or determining signs, while looking this
human maze. I see an aura, afloat our third eye, albeit, together, a bit sad;
for songs are drifting, our minds on repeat, a bit suspicious of love; as if an
image, is sorely connected, where links are made of hay; this visage of
terrors—our days at wars, if but to believe in something perfect: this timid
goodbye, those longing arts, our souls inverted. We crave a chance, to lose for
interests, congested by particular fires: this inner catapult, while lurching
forward, this passion of poets; to need our seconds, while retreating dearly,
at affections those immortal ideals; to capture while fleeing, this muse of
minds, a casualty to mirrors.
