Winds
are raging, atop a rainstorm, where thoughts are musing—to see your heart, as
something cryptic, to wander through science—this deep enchant, as ruling
senses, to ask of immortality; this crucial song, while minds wonder, this velvet
vastness; wherefore, this passion, as more it evaluates, severing ideals—to
come to terms, as feeling truths, this curse by math of blessings. I suppose
for love, this vacant expression, where one longs for more—that inner urn,
ablaze a phoenix, charging as bulls through deserts. It couldn’t be life, this
force of humans, afflicted by sheer delights; or more that Spirit, rushing
through rivers—our fields flushed in petals. I craved investments, as courting
such winds, gazing at raindrops—this rabid raccoon, pacing afar, to nigh our
backdoor. I pause to gaze, affixed on thoughts, sipping tea; to conclude
nothing, infused and addled, residing in communion; for we had to live, seeking
as giving, ablaze our nightfall: that welkin train; that riven feeling; that lucid
tear; whereto, are confusions, this gentle craving, as to adventure deciduous
years. I’ve come to live, as forced to perish, our rules becoming vague; this
tint of life, kayaking oceans, searching for God: as visible passions,
concerned experience, and less those adolescent doubts; while prone to
knowledge, abating misery, as tempered as nuns—to cry by chance, those palms as
moist—our inheritance withstanding assaults. It should be gentle, this war to
live, while cleaving to immortality—that place of minds, as encouraged fevers,
chiming by arts this myth; as kissed with love, while sorting through
attractions, accusing self of seeming astray; to hold that fixture, this
landscape of souls, at parts abused through memories. We saw for breakage, this
mist of woes, to abolish those hopes; as running afield, while short to
succeed, craving muddy waters; but more to this, as less to that, where minds
are focused at our horizons; whereat, are crystals, and sapphire eyes, plus,
this turquoise charm; that bracelet of alchemy, or more that quartz, as
distressing our calms; if but to reach it—to soon discard it, or maybe to grip
by cleats; where love is power, as soothing our angst, this fantastic fantasy;
as born inside, afloat those cries, seething a disjunct.
