It hurts, our dreams; this devious voyage, as losing
strength; to die gently, this inflated core, as spittle upon gold; to forsake
life, as more memories, our broken glass; that table of dreams, that fantastic
arch, those pains sipping, forever; this
casual sphinx, to love our wires, to raft a scar. I knew a fire, through harsh
delusions, as curbed inside—to fly this grace, a face to passion, this tear
falling; as screaming insanity, caged at Pash, this brief earache, to hear
those whispers. It’s a.m. hours, at that silent place, musing your brains; as
something near, this art of fools, if but this prose: those lambent cries, that
cadent flow, that spectacular treasure. We chanced love, this space within, as
losing that touch; our flushed souls, stapled to madness, to hold those charms;
where it could be life, this inner winter, as so cold for loneness. I never
would, as thankful our dreams, to feel something absent; to love like crazy,
this slow death, at breath a nightingale—or more a song-sky, that mental umbrella,
to perish by waves of joy. If but tomorrow, this thing he wanted, as never to
live it. It takes for marching, this mechanic fool, this quixotic adventure; to
remember passion, to anger that heart, while forsaken to nightmares: that inner
vampire; that scarecrow for nothing; that
beige lingerie; where vultures fall, to witness softness, after years of
heart-deaths. To hell for caution, to have a dream, as missing that mark; this
squeaky love, enchanted by lamps, falling to skies afloat—this permanent
island, as one distorted, feeding a songbird; but let it perish, this ghostly
sky, as bred for this marksman; where patience is cruel, where havoc is mystic,
as forsaking a part of life; as more a phoenix, this harsh flesh, this cold
fate; while partial to pains, as knowing their mothers, to have become intimate;
indeed, for tragic, to lose sanity, while climbing dementia; this heartsore, a
nature to fear, but adrenaline to crush: that fireplace; those long
discussions; to suggest those differences; as more a memory, charged by winds,
our wings our expansions. I’m at life, feeling such emotions, pleasing to a
dream; this fantastic legend, that outer heartbeat, that trumpet blast; to know
for nothing, this mind of fools, affected by sheer presence; as it slips away,
to sense for healing, tugging an old heartbeat; as losing self, to hold this
ache, where Pash becomes a wilder beast: that anchor by tears; that vacuum as
snug; those nights at a vibration; to lose it all, this stroke of fate, while
eyes are moist: our dramatic scar, as more a friend, by which, this immortal
fuel; but ever this love, as never this love, while soaring at fuses adrift our
skies.
