I’ve
seen beauty, as something apostolic, deemed as legendary. I’ve seen justice—its
crooked path, as to assume beauty: this terror by persons; while gauged as
horrible; at sudden winds that glory; to feel a palm, at the nape of existence,
gazing through those charms; where passions wrestle, as captive neatly, this
place at sky-hearts—as gifted hell-hounds, that knitted garb, that holy
inquisition—as seeing fevers, that eclectic glow, stemming through brain
centers; where life is your beauty, that smidgen of territory, your intrusive
eyes—as knowing rejection, wherewith, this science, to hold to
inheritance—while chased afar, that cryptic disposition, as remembering its
inception. We want eternity, with little without efforts, to awaken eternity.
We see it as fancy, to want those treasures, as passive as pantomimes; where
years were fires, this storm of oceans, as grinding the Mediterranean; where
leviathan dwelt, prior to city life, adrift a dismal abyss; to fish by torture,
that cadence of resistance, to see your gusts with wants; as long to evolve,
that cell of magnets, while couples laugh through disdain; or more admiration,
as seldom spoken, while one vies for something structured; those pains of
fools, as loving by fancy, this rich imperfection; that time for sin, or righteous
living, as molded through experience; while tired of angst, but at love for
growth, this tension as striking roots. I smelled melancholy, a familiar scent,
while running both east and west; this frightening scare, as one disjointed,
hanging by a scarecrow: that sight for mocking, as crows seek corn, while
humans seek cultivation: that mystical melody; that cello to tap-dancing; that
inner whistle as haywire; to see your face, debated by Scribes, while cherished
by Pharisees—that ancient art, as intoxication, rushing through
hemispheres—where truth is death, as death is life, while truth is existence;
that far again place, as reaching through illusions, tugging at something
existential: this gift by aches; this beauty as earned; where one pardons owls;
those murky spectators, at reporting to seers, where love becomes an
aberration—by grace that scar, afar again this cry, as broken eternal: this pressure of spaces, as never your beauty,
while ever that firefly: as approaching kef—unto resurrection—as approaching
kef; that inner dementia, as wanting prestigious love, while associated with
perfections: that controversial; that acrid delusion; while trekking deserts;
those waking vibes, as cursed to feel, while longing both east and west. It
becomes familiar, this archery of poets, this catapult of souls; as mirrored to
brains, racing through consciousness, while more a cosmic pianist.
