I
return to perceptions, this web by ashes, as vocal our religions: that country
trail; that rabid ache; that inner ventriloquist—as born our mirrors,
reflecting our experiences, as we assume or presume those dispositions—while
angered it lives, or angered by absence, this need for chances—as more
discomforts, as never to care, we just need to know: that country ache; that
vineyard of admirations; our resilience by screaming, No! If aches are gentle, we smile with pride, adorned in familiar essence: if pash is absent, we chime in
venom, abused by perceptions. I return to human, at years our Ghost, a man a
bit troubled: to witness angers, as presumed madness, as a man merely appears:
that intricate ghost, that perky nonchalance, that casual disposition; while
seeming beauties, to ignore perceptions, as sensing a subtle agitation—for more
a human, as souls inverted, where others are at liberty to exist as humans. It
becomes a challenge, even a miracle, while also presuming facts; while assumed as normal,
that psyche of a psych, that countenance as screaming perfectionist—or deep
psychiatry, that rounded madness, such subtleties perused—or more abused, while
opting for clarities, as yanked to return—to mere those thoughts, at woes with
perceptions, while dictated by said perceptions; to ask of souls, this deep
mire, while we have nothing but perceptions. They breathe our lives, in
accordance with blankness, while contorting our behaviors. We depend and lean
and die and swim and fly our chameleon perceptions—as dependent upon cores, as
achieved through emotions, as cancelled through feelings: as near our
observations; as challenged nearly; this force beyond control peering through
binoculars. I ache a dilemma, this very affliction, while suspending thoughts;
but soon that breath, that deep return, as trailed by a tendency to ignore—for
laws are gray, as behaviors are dependent, this man but a feature of wings: to
angle perceptions, as it could never happen, while comfortable that fact about
life; this deep dejection, that deep belief, for men are creatures of habit;
those saddened songs, disrupting calmness, a village of defensive
perceptions—as too, this perception concerning perceptions, at wars to discern
perceptions. We crave this life, those gorgeous flowers that tinge towards
something immoral: if thought our minds, while sitting in perfections, while
pointing at pictures: that deep contempt, this reflection of mirrors, while
raging at something mirrored in fantasies: that casual nonchalance, that sweat
at armpits, our music as offending sophisticated utensils. I would never
laugh—this man of grays, while wrestling with a past-self: this furious flavor;
that cryptic ache; that fancy for beautiful souls: if but his life, chasing
cul-de-sacs, or arousing hard-drives—that interior software, knitted through
keyboards, this woman that deep at intimacy—as foreign to life, as pausing in
motion, as writing with furry—this song he sung, at reach through perceptions,
while deeply haywire: to die a soul, to arise a spirit, where days become this
intricate warfare: abused by feelings; at needs for trainings; at courage to
love this inner reflection. I war us not, this vest of perceptions, while
challenged to debate our overseers; this country of souls, our roaming meadows,
at songs to fly.
