We
make decisions, a slave of such incisions, as reamed through memories; to
change a verb, as to rupture a noun, while slamming into convictions; to love
so grayly, that accumulation, those violet woes; as crying vengeance, this
inner fire, aloof to repercussions; these flaming forces, at tales his life,
where heaven appears as darkness: that long abeyance, those controversies, that
inner whisper; as craving disasters, while destroyed neatly—our decisions
harmonizing prisoners; where hell would glisten, as some sort of haven, while
hearts are heaving. We sought out pains, mainly at unawares, both conditioned
by chaos; where souls dwell, addicted to fast women, whereto, as seeking
something promising: that static affection; that one soul trauma; those lights
as infused by one; as men to roam, those jaded islands, that effect of
sky-drama: those casual grins; that space in cultures; that reach as less than
cherished. Such repercussions, those years at bars—that thought as greater than
behavior; to seek that fortune, wrestling this old man, while running towards
mirrors; wherewith, is art, this tragedy of souls, falling pits to arise as
sky-flame: (if one more heist; if one more woman; if one more rift—as living
this way, accused of deviance, subject to cultural laws; those vague
enchantments; those hardcore tautologies; those ontological ethics; if but to
breathe, as this other person, while unlocking at pains our centered selves;
this wealth of chaos, associated madness, at once, to utter, They never heard me); this welted heart,
as a whittled soul, by far, a welkin fire; where love would tarry, as some sort
of scar, this essence reminder; or
more that series, of complicated errors, while painting a picture made perfect:
(were one to whisper, as knowing our histories, another would frown in despair).
We despise arrantly, this person by songs—that mirror of repercussions; as
needing to heal, if but to breathe, roaming as intimate strangers: (if self
could see, this cultural chasm, where humanness is a common link—that wrath
would dwindle, that tear would bless, that kiss would inform: if but this life,
as facing turmoil, climbing as to reach that Promise); where scars are castles,
as love is treasured, while building a fortress of values; this sick dimension,
as acquiring sensorium, where such are prone to alienate; but more to reality,
this season of torments, as repeating insanity: that weekly death; that monthly
churn; those yearly demons; as provoking madness, as changed through
travesties, to arise again that old person; that familiar land, despite
repercussions, sealed through an inner terror; as screaming obscenities, at
invisible forces, while reaming self for our sickness. It becomes a voyage, as
singing to Spirit, while seeking healing: that person of virtue; that rhythm of
reception; that need to witness our beauties; else, for murky lakes, mental
monsters—a host of inner evils; where love is needy, as time is darkness, as
one embarks upon a passage of inward betrayals.
