Pedicured
dreams, as manicured visions, while subtle that tension; to shimmy a feeling,
while torn distressed, as calm as Gandhi: to see us dying; as to breathe us
living; while deep that yogi. I felt it screaming, shifting through turns, as
over analyses—but dreamt analysis, as carved afflictions, while tepid our
oceans; to crawl a furnace, as to leap a volt, as deliberate as Malcolm: this
fury by storm; that electric facial; those tweaks as concentrated. If life is
gentle, I shall meet that dream, while pierced our science; to feel it rise,
this place of Christ, a bit disturbed by idealisms: if caught his brain; if sought his vision; this thing through
paradise—as living torn, so steep that soul, as hiding meanness through
politeness; as seeing humans, this rash disposition, where essence pours into meaning: that casual goodbye, as given an inch,
while protecting images: that grand perfection, that lot of beings, our souls
at complications: to see experience; to read dejections; to foresee a
legacy—that faraway dream, as travelled that countryside, near that hundredth
psalm—as reading forever, to repeat that cycle, at tears to feel anguish; this
space in souls, our human condition, while perfected in images; to find
remorse, that brief intermission, a bit unkempt: if not that dream, as fully
human, while facing mildness: that blank analysis; asearch an undercurrent; as
trekking through seasons mundane. If times are gentle, today shall pass, as
defined as yesterday—where people change, while time is static, but reason
searches for newness. Its part envy: Its part jealousy; while dreams scatter by
waysides: that feral inch, at inner struggles—to commit to lucid gestures. I
could to laugh, as one confused, where thoughts are circling that hidden
realm—to course with love, as distant from love, while purposed in love; that
cryptic song, addressed as music, sitting for fumbling while feeling discomforts:
that inner maestro; that shift towards disdain; that siding with women. It
comes that way, as slanted towards history, while shivering at inner mirrors;
to see harshness, cocooned in wisdom, this present disgust; but life is
troubled, while persons are destroyed, where ours in but feathers.
I
met a dream, as detached from dreams, peering at my eyes that dreamt; to feel
for fire, that distant fire, as to leap as mere a tendency; while kept to self,
at deep at wonder, to see such resistance; as if in time, that shadow spoke,
while broken in spaces that affection. Imagine years, as barely a trace, while
perfected in distance; that casual heart, leaping as leapt—that furious
disposition; as perfected anger, while at dreams our intrusions, to wonder of
this agency: that want to reject, that need as seen, if but to extract power—as
days are gentle, this foolish man, crawling to awaken that feeling; as drifted
our skies, at cries this woe, to form through a sacred place: that scar he held; that tragic vision; our souls
at cadence that dance—if but to perish, this deep affection, as nights speak to
something incorrigible. I feel a fever, as lost this turn, while to ponder a
group of souls; as unseen, feeding heartbeats, where a yogi breathes: this
frantic art; that rooted chaos; those false structures; where passions churn,
while a bit too obvious, where gestures fail to conflict. It becomes a dream,
to replace that cygnet, as life wrought through mania: that deep mystery; that
afflicted brain; those years at training; to come to terms, by inches a
thought, where years have read a dozen tombs: that casual art; this rooted
pain, that wretched passion: if but a dream; or more a curse; while seated at
trestles afar. I must to drift, as more that style, to imagine such a chasm:
our jagged worlds; our deep mistakes; our faces as mirrors.
