I invoke
thoughts, this meditative force—some form of mind-control; streaming come
memories, that child at a teddy bear, that mother musing our dimensions; to see
us flourish, but secretive years, carrying a smidgen of guilt. It sings through
caress; where eyes swell with tears; to hear that nothing’s wrong. It grips in
agony—those torn sheets, scraping our ribs: this gentle life, protected by
young men, while women perfect our moments: that mental kidnap; that glass near
mirrors; this reflection of something perfect; where men perish, those sights
of hostilities, while downstream building a dam: this flood of souls, “If but one more branch,” as one churns
through fingertips. There’s much to die for—as abused by thoughts, gazing at a
silent Madonna; this gracile ideal,
as quixotic misery—as one chastised by inventions: our very hands, molding
irritability, while dinning at inconsistencies: our fairest of dreams; our
selfish-pride; this woman at peace our souls: this froward confession, as stars
form galaxies, those waves in persons as machineries—to need this song, where
eyes gut to hearts, while meters remain in harmony. I loved as unfounded, a bit
ill-prepared, unaware of equalities—where thoughts are greeted, as debates are
settled, while darling angels gasp in amazements. I held an object, this
porcelain perfection, as but an image of projections. I weighed not
abandonment; nor that wretched feeling; nor that sway of sabotage. I weighed
not our fathers—our critical mothers—or that inner cry for masteries. We guess it
rarely, this fire of souls, our Marilyn Monroe’s—striking through chaos, as we
cleave for eternity—this passion of nights: to be possessed, as stressed to
live—so far that mental voyage. We ingest a feeling—sexual ontology, sitting as
aloof with a friend; this cadence for more, to admire Celebrity, but one deep tension through mire; to effuse love, as
giving in absence, this search for self: a portrait of Emma Watson; a flame for
Grace Kelly; this fire to conquer a Siren—or more Rihanna, this woman of
affairs, “If but our stars to souls.” I’m
wired to minds, aloft this rich fortress, at woes that period of times; as
wanting with greatest, a small disappointment, reaching by chance our
ear-waves; that furious woman, his first encounter, vying for mother’s
affections: received at sectors, this want—this need, as more this caricature;
to find such travesty, inflating Rashida Jones, to imagine sheer inflection;
this voice of screams, as painted his heart—our living quarters adorned in
angels; to curse his soul, for dear those thoughts, while grieving those silent
lips. It becomes a journey, that sense of therapy, as fortifying hearts: this
place of tension, as counseled to succeed, tweaked by glance a clear channel;
where pains heal, as to reach for souls, to have this childhood wedding. I
speak of arts; that infused poetry, where lines are excruciating—digging for
sawing, as upon piecing flesh, that place as dreams those islands—where mother
bled, this small disappointment, as omitted a life-vest: that inner forever—our
eyes to fairytales, while mother pined for freedom. I know this curse, musing
upon Kristen Stewart, at wars with twin valves: this engine by music, as
forming an orchestra, to suffer this investment; to meet by chance, that
awkward stance, those pains of cultures. We grieve this night, as reaching
forward—to imagine something rooted deeply: to cherish Beyoncè; or to flourish
through Barrymore; this space in clocks our tickers. Were love to fly, this
extended kite, peering at daughters; our souls to float, aspark delicacies,
aflame that voice; as parts in movies, lived in touch, this heart by love
awakened; where presence digs, as flipping through pages, torn asunder our
whirlwind.
