Feelings are Colors

I’m an artifact, found by searching, while sitting in stillness; this non-object, a bit subjective, measured as energy; to strap his brain, those electrical charges, to find this yogi.  I’m a silent vessel, aside for literature, peering at psychic threads; while gifted as seconds, to flourish a sentence, at bay that love as folly; to bat a volt, as caught in turn, scribbling notations; this academic, as philosophical, foreseeing this theologic; while born living, as living-dying, to morph through creases that curse; this morgue of thoughts, a carnival of faces, this clown while broken in pieces; as catching visions, this twofold coin, that trapeze our center of arts: that paradox, this shifty word, as defined purely through experience; as looking to books, while quite at loss—our usage as dearly personal.  I saw you once, draped in gems—our keenness as sacrifice. We hushed awareness, while protecting souls, this gust in needs of nourishment; as singing a hymn, while motioned at stillness, this vision by far a magnet; to humble souls, this portrait of loneness, wishing to converse understanding—as heavy as anchors, while light as feathers, those veins pitted in leaves. Its casual sin, as becoming chaotic, to open our doors to something small: this mini torch, to rage with time, to find such shame; where arms are short, but reaching through particles, to grip by angst our sun. I know nothing, as to know for something, as revved through father’s engine—where mother died, this stranger as mother, to see you sitting in anguish; this fabulous loss, to have instructed love, while daughters explore literature; that grand saxophone, our souls at blues, to mingle by jazz that sweet adventure.  I must be lost, to court blue flame, to remember pure chemicals; as fueled with death, too weak to conquer, as too strong to forfeit, while at needs to surrender; this purpose of psychs, to shift that turn, where thoughts are tapered as tapestries; this fallen angel, to reel a virgin, as Babylon was minor. I tripped to walk; I crawled to stand; I leapt to run—as traveling traffic, this freeway advice, to advise some of darkness; this place of souls, thrusting through lights, as far-too-gone for submission; this inner interview, this outer panel, a group of psychs debating features; to call his name, at stress to confession, in need of psychs; this precious cycle, this bold admission—our worlds as seeking therapies; this psychoanalysis, as mental wholeness, our follicles oozing with freedoms; wherefore, this art, as sparked by lightning, this bolt, lurching into meta-thoughts; to have this love, as dear to souls, to meet with more than terrors.  We should have loved, as jasper springs, leering at waterfalls—to silence doubts, while reaching afar, our limbs winging expansions; as far so cold, as warm for love, shifting as shaking into torments: this bright allusion, as pure diffusion, to ask for more illusions. I’ve lived our bridge, painting our skyscrapers, rebuilding our sky-fan; this sky-glass adventure, while seeping into clouds, as something up-side-down; to sit atop, tossing jelly beans, as flavors color perceptions; as steering love, this fatal event, as to come by chance; to hold eternal, this mixture of feelings, screaming of something powerful: this inner bakery, fueled by batter, that thing a clump of grass; where pains are growths, to steady converse, as pure to heart those woes. I loved a stranger, adrift to rebuild, to find this void filled with jewels; to catch by hearts, this space of stars, as to commune this gem; where arts are permanent, as perception shifts, this turn of arcs feeding this furnace; to live immortal, sentenced to die, if but that silence to speak of love.