i
couldn’t fathom life, this sickness at love, to scar the one we adore; or to
close doors, a consensus of one, to give us this lackness; where actions cried,
this restricted breath, our souls wheezing.
it
took courage, to speak loosely, as hearts awakened. we perish at love, while creeks whisper, this
rustic scenery. we unlock silence, to hear our cages, as the world ought to perish.
i’m
at tremors, so many years at strains, and so many minutes at wheezing; to hold
that gaze, as if life would stop—forever this second our passion: as sunlit
assassins, or sky-fraught allusions, or feelings unable to speak—this justice
of silence, those slain souls, a thorn as a friend. such fetching anger, and
plagiarized by science, our genesis as freewill; as deeply witless, asked for
choices, to have held to nothing. i asked us love, this absent advice, this
incumbent duty; as seen a fledgling, for roots were wild, where souls were
willing—our incorrigible arts, torn-purple eyes, adored beige highlights; while
freezer cold, and furnace warm, this oxymoron!
to
hold that thought:
X
creates infant minds in adult bodies
Y is
said bodies
X
gives a demand
Y is
not equipped to comprehend repercussions
thus,
Y breaks the command
was
this us, at unwarned commands, chastised for disobedience? was it us, a bit
un-cunning, subject to a stealth serpent: those mahogany eyes; that fever in
men; this dislike for self—as prone to deaths, a remissive action, as hoped in
earnest: this city of repeats, to learn of pains, to ask for closure?
that
haunting scar, so early for cadence, this dangerous soul; as reminiscing—at
longing for joys, to have such venom: that communication, to see as men, to
become said serpent: this inner distrust; this blemished image; to give us what
we see.
i’m
too afar, as close to flesh, and stippled in a nightmare; to remember intentions,
a tattooed sky, and this beat by brass; even for inrush, this claw as gnawing,
this winter abrasion: those magenta eyes, that tempest flesh, our deep
contempt; to acknowledge little, or to fear confession, languishing upon an
ottoman; where truths appear, our loveseat of woes, accursed for sinning.
