We
watch closely, this mafia mentality, speaking with covered mouths; as seen in
movies, or read in books—that bunk of meditation; seeing by choice, those
limitations, at envy this flute’s appeal; fraught with majesty, this inner mechanism,
observing beautiful women; this chasm of fools, beyond our allotments,
traveling this haunted corridor; as women grin, that angst for men, to realize
money builds castles. I’m but a lad, addicted to fast living, captured by
vices; as nonchalant, this lack of words, attempting to court beauty; that
grave of souls, leering at riches, infused by something demonic; to shift
through gravities, at war with tendencies, as to fall our Father’s arms:
despite our chase, there comes sacrifices, while delving into divinity: that mafia
music; that black market heart; those theologians; as sought by grace, this
chapter of souls, where mother gave warning; to see us watching, awaiting
moves, at strategies to alter powers. I lived as fools, running through
cemeteries, this trope for mental havoc; at grief this soul, a magnet to woes,
gazing upon mirrors from a distance; but ever those eyes, longing for freedoms,
as perfected before cribs; that deep connection, those inner lines, those
tender parents; as more contradiction, to fill a child early, with this
unbreakable love; where courage is gentle—that knocking door, as authorities
ask questions. I’ve learned this journey, this private experience, to love our
father; for times are ripe, for stress upon chaos, where circumstances outweigh
realities; that crucial turn, as floating through traffic, while to pause at a
nunnery; where worship is magnet, as to imbue a child, while mourning such
circumstances. But what is love, as to rear a child, where said child resembles
the father: this dungeon charm; that loud temper; those innuendoes; to perfect
a chasm, this abandoned feeling, as a father rinds his garments. I heard about
priests, afflicted by fires, as to become this other element; as blessed
through studies, watching from a distance, engrained in allotments. I faced a
dream, as to embrace a vision, where said dream became a reality: this
wrenching heart; this tragic warfare; our mothers at wars for decades. We need
to sing, this inner reality, where families observe by grace; as invested
deeply, that miracle of lives, that velvet illumination; to reach afar, by mere
a glance, as to affect a child’s future. But it could be gentle, this wealth of
wisdom, permeating destinies; where children relish—in sheer excitement, if to
permit self to live: to shed mother, as to shed father, while to become a human
soul. It’s quite extraordinary, as to attain that magic, while it’s quite
exhausting; to reach it at points, as memories appear, our minds leaking in
increments; where life is miseries, or embedded joys, a nation of children carrying
parents; as, too, to carry self, this chain of realities, sorting through
marshy lagoons; as hearts to swell, racing a mystic chant, at wars to evade
traumas: as eyes have seen, such radiant chaos, while feigning as normal. But
it could be gentle, this wealth of strategies, requiring excavations. I must
apologize, as lacking knowledge, where reality appears so vaguely: this music
for some; that music for others; this dependency upon education; as to build
reservoirs, or to embrace ideals, while to ponder wholeness; this thing of
partnership, as to appeal to masses, as opposed to appealing to self. But it’s
cold this way, as to live this way, as to deteriorate slowly; where pain is
crucial, as seconds are excruciating, while defending something harmful; as
lacking in reach, where others placate, while some are writhing in agony. It
comes by surprise, such resilient children, at once, to utter an unreality; as
churned asunder, gazing at anger, where parents stand in utter amazement. But
prayer is powerful, this universal, while surging through dimensions.
