Rooms

I’m running hallways, pierced through rooms, at wars this dementia; our women crying, alas, screaming, at filth this thought to love. I’m seeing visions, at peace that delusion, traipsing through hospitals. I’m seeing demons, cleaving to angels—this woman with five brains; as castling madness, reaching for mercy, an arm’s touch from kef; this inner chaos, to see it in tensions, cringing this beautiful travesty; as warring with death, to tug that wisdom, leering at Kerry’s eyes; this faraway kite, as floating nearby, while through him, for him, and by him; this curse of things, this blessing of knowledge, this birth as affronting aunties. I saw a temple, those grieving statues—this picturesque nightmare; this glory by pains, affected as nonchalant, to paint with brushes our bleeding: this bruised lung, wailing for freedom, at a loss to lose such tension: this pregnant dungeon, as flipping pages, raging as a dragon that fire; this inner griffin, that two-headed lemur—this furry by vines those brains; as falling afar, nails to flesh, at best, this image of redemption: to see as crooked, but what for straightness, as revved this iron to enter flame; this stripping panic, those blue pills, at illness running through cemeteries: this gorgeous calamity; this precious misery;—Safiya at wars to kill me: this fabulous treachery; this marvelous crucible; our brains at Brimhall’s doorsteps; to find confusion, as years would perish, to meet this intricate simplicity: this dying legend, as bent towards famines, at wars to extinguish this furry: that beautiful song; those diverse tongues; this loss by angst a triumph; to skip in stillness, while seated at trails, this walking by minds to flurry through meadows. We had to perish, this pack of singleness, roaming through empty skies; as flourishing sky-fires, at tears with sky-souls, abroad as stagnant fleeing rooms; this place of solace, this great depletion, at once, that era of solitary madness. I was want to live, as losing this forest, while trees collapsed at every turn; as churned a straight line, born to reminisce, at kisses this pair of coals. I loved insanity, as cringing insanity, this feeling born of illness; to see this psych, at seated in seduction, to ask of minds this chase. We danced a furnace, as abandoned to moments, as time convicted this bed; that art by cages, that cage by freedoms, this needs to bar this affliction. Oh, for ties that mercy, cursed as fleeing, while to enter another’s brain; this game of dreams, or silent screams, as feeling undercurrents; this inner professor, to know that name, at shames to admit attraction; this person as self, to plead as genuine, this Spirit deceiving spirits. I loved a phantom, our beds as strangers, to see us their lost in lust; to know so many, as treated with disdain, to love this texture; where tides are cold, this warmth by thoughts, to aflame a body of rivers; while falling close, as pulled afar, this woman thumping through kingdoms; to greet a priest, or nurture a nun, this grief at wails to extinguish this curse; as more this blessing, while seared asunder, charging into Revelation: this bright dimness; this raging calmness; that shallow deepness. I loved a song, while dead to songs, as to love this morbid song—as chasing freeways, those cars as jammed, while life sat upon an impasse; this inner vestibule, at tears this mystic, to finally find communion; as near for rebirth, as challenged to resume—this space in time as memories; to see for humans, this needs to run, this woman gripping catastrophes; as more a journey, this gurney of lies, as never to give self a chance—that needs to love, running through rooms, severed from heart to dungeon; this mix of singleness, as chased by thoughts, this running of stillness—to capture such eyes, as bleeding melancholy, to advance towards resurrection; this inner calligraphy, stipple in DNA, that face a countenance truly blessed; to know for ghosts, those inner trembles, as bodies shiver in mid-motion; to pause at love, as never to love, as holding love—this furious love, as committed ‘till death—our breaths a mural to rooms.