At A Man’s Bridge (Faced By Realities)

I watch morals, this space of webs, this dell of agonies; while sheer enchanted, our static motions, at denial such beauty: a bit terrified, as reaching angst, to shift with thunder that minx; as falling conditions, those turquoise dreams, afflicted by convictions; this place we live, as self-assassinators, by clearance to destroy affections: this melancholia, that inner psychology, a bit envious of mavericks; as watching youth, this mighty climb, this living of agonies; as bounded in joys, this flow with winds, our valleys pursuing longevities; as more to music, perusing a queen, as if vetted this assertion; but arms to skies, as skies to brains, while slightly at war: that inner man, that fallen man, that new invention; as seeing distress, in mere a gesture, while affected for years: that burgundy gin; those short cloves; this psych a bit too convincing; as not as deaths, or sheer deception, but this wonder concerning this living; where tires turn, as pedals thrust, while cranks shatter: that space in metaphysics, as pure a giant, this wanting of more: as pure psychology, our perfect endeavors, while professors live such private affairs: that milking of visions, that throttle of vibes, that perfect lecture; as finding our way, while graphed in currents, that need to sit afar; insomuch, as sinning, this welt within, while Adonis lives his journey. I plague mother, this solitary woman, while searching for mother; this false ingestion, as to sights unseen, while playing Atari. It comes to mind, this fair distraction, where love is but a myth; but still to fantasies, while rejecting premises, at tears this constant evaluation; whereto, are cringes, as too, affections, while at wars to decipher intentions: this long analysis, this waving predicament, this courage to divest actualities; where fools trot, as finding glory, that something to admiring gusto; as torn to prose, this philosophical, at states, becoming pragmatic; as challenged to live, where living is deaths, as churned by something that lives within; insofar, as terrors, about infinity, while chasing becomes more important: that tragic capture, as two to flames, aiming for exhaustion; or more to perfection, that myriad of hats, while a man becomes a lunatic. We chime this venture, fully electric, at chasms this fair dimension; whereas, flowers wilt, at cadence with life, where humans perfect those satin bars; this barn of thought, this storehouse of treasures, our mixture by arts those forces; as abating in time, left with turmoil, or becoming this field of wild-stock. I feel confined, as loving adventure, while pausing at a petal; this pensive gaze, as a wistful retreat, while realizing it was never a proposition. Oh for confusion, as long we live, interrogating internal shifts: that brilliant mind; those sooty eyelashes; our astrological charts; where souls flourish, as born to life, while sifting through grains: that love as given, as captured through stresses, while at tears to explain it to love-ones.      

Started With Fire (This Deep Abrasion)

While felt amazing, this mental fuse—so far that reality; where petals speak, this trek of gardens, alive-electric-winds: wheezing by pressures; naked to wildlife; as vulnerable as newborns: such newness of life; our suspicious anchors; infused by abstracts: that casual laugh, as imperatives of time, our windfall sorrows; to glisten by agonies, afar an impression, that mistaken misery as humility: where jaguars prostrate; such musical dolor; while affected by subtle that gesture; those wild glens, embedded in brains, at flux to love so heavenly: our manikin cries, as pantomime sails, this fission of characters; where love escapes, while escape is precious, as far certain our subliminals: those tender daydreams, by treasures that heartache, as two join becoming one; this casual bale, as so nonchalant—gripping by feathers such expectation: that screaming nib, while etching portraits—our realities engraved upon skyglass.  

     

I pine softly, at wails with Trixie, seeping into labyrinthine flowers; repeated as curses, mulct of sanity, a bit too sane for television: this crying life; that sighing muse; our trombones clashing through fens; at arks to lights, traveling by cadence, abused by a tender palm: those instrumentals, as seeming perfected—our imperfect address: while sipping fire; aloof to joys; at tenses over lakes: those casual storms, as mentioned in articles, this living according to magazines; as hustled inside, an amulet as statements—our screams as social beads; to die a halo, this miracle of valleys, as all endure similar lots: those silver raindrops; that delirious earthquake; that moment in rhymes as peaceful: our Asian rice; Our Grecian lamb; our inner souls inverted through trials; to course through passions, permitted to laughter, while investigating love: those pleasures as suspect; our encounters tugging; as too, those pictureless vibrations; to sort through confetti, while losing certainties, by nature holding to long held convictions; to find dissention, as carrying life, our visions as philosophical fires; where tears are watching, altered by horizons—that countenance screaming through wrinkles.

Alchemic waves; our years at gazing; our colorful thoughts—as more to sinning, if but at registers, alert to casual dissention; where beauty becomes feelings, this shift is souls, our nectar becoming attributes; to find with love, this releasing of music, while content with knowing about love; as casual deaths, embraced for perfection, our rainfalls becoming scientific: to feel at forces, that vibrant guitar, while at woes this inrush of divinity: that secret notion, at wars with souls, while cleaving to miracles; where trumpets blast, this march of millions, while afar a dream: that chaste rhapsody; that violin’s mother; our father an electric drum—as falling to sickness, those shifting images, at mercies by forgiven self. It could be life, this trial of dysfunction, while at tears such turmoil; as thieves enter temples, alive but a voice, where prophets raid our inner scoundrels: this place in hearts, engulfed in splendor, at arcs with sights.    

Clear Fog

So frantic by hearts, this waning fortress, but a dungeon in time; as weary filaments, accustomed to mixtures—your being fading through fixtures: this casual dance, while alive at currency, such sickness for souls; where mercy is myth, while feeling indebted, or more an act of charity; so more to waning, as lives dysfunction, by measures that spectacular scream.  There’s lights afar, that miracle tragedy, at races to outrun sorrow; this mystical field, as rooted in majesty—that thin lens as immortal; where love depresses, while refusals constrict, as merry-go-lucky is forgery; insofar, as courtesy, by pleasures such shame, while engaged in metamorphosis; to see signs, as retreating afar, or too close to respond—that inner vehicle, that somber gait, our humility grounded in senses: if but a scare, to jog a soul, at emphasis to push a button; but what is life, this acting of souls, far too restricted to mingle. We chose life, standing upon swings, by midair to flip; as something to strangeness, while something to graces, at terrors to know our places: that mental ache, as mere in passing, to know your functions—as sheer a miracle, outliving turmoil, at roots a series of joys; while to mourning, this man of words, balanced enough to smile; while falling pits or uprooting agonies or outlining this vest of sins; this blessing of wits, as surpassing transgression, insomuch, as agitating particular thoughts; to withdraw with time, a bit busy with life, as, too, a bit disappointed; our forests by mirrors; our feathers by triumphs; our formations by studies—as rare to flattery, as seeing your brain, by weather to out-believe passion: this ink as dripping; this in-for outs; this feeling by horizons: as casual breaths, seeping into wilderness, as one known afar. We call it tragedy, as opposed to us, this face as knitted with bars; while missing life, our dreary sights, where many are accruing pleasures; where love is roses or even gardenias or exotic memories—that inner pavement, to have said so little, while at wonders about this element missing; to find with arts, this shredded illusion or more that light pointing at expectations; where souls flurry, this fury of madness, while others stand oblivious. (I know a miracle; I fathom forbidden; I drift concentration: as something wanes; while something grows; by admission a fire; so more to flying, as alive at love, while avoiding shame: this place in souls, that inculcated scream, as too close for full recognition).      

By Love & War (Our Swan)

Greetings, Love; this feral wilderness, as fraught with anchors—such tender bliss, while surfing waves, adrift our horizon: that achy soul; those various raptures; those enchanting roses: where time is witness, that interior promise, while afforded one dream; to pillage doors, while rising glory, agaze by innocent deaths—that Cajun wisdom, afloat by Paris, accustomed to walls. Our nights to luxury, racing through fires, every increment a baptism; those sky-visions, as sky-brown eyes, and curly vines; this life of souls, that subtle energy, at tales, that burgundy heart; or more to rising, too aloft to see, while bathing in sky-waters. We drift this wave, melding prose, eager to cross your T’s: our telic hearts; infused with blues; as jazzy as ancient scholars: afforded passions; not merely screams; as cushioned our souls; that far away planet, as courted through intuition, so aware this person peeking by mirrors.     

Day two

It becomes television, this movie as life, evaluating characters; that outer drama, that typical countenance, those palms to floors while screaming; this life of angles, feeding ferrets, alarmed by nuances; albeit, to silence, that inner fire, flapping a pond of geese—that miracle swan, by grace an angel, a bit frantic by machination; as life for clearance, that realization, weary of incurring bad karma: that mystical eye, while channeling fevers, too concerned with mediocrity; for all is newness, adrift a scar typical winds, while challenged this lake of grandeur.

Lights are spinning, by pure calculations, as on-seers are oblivious: that mettlesome mind; that searing wit; that ensuing distrust; where souls mingle, enchanted by truths, this search for clarity; as musicality, or instrumentals, at agonies to distinguish waves. It becomes television, those deep illusions, at wonder those infallible positions; as speaking by harms, accused as gadflies, for pointing at fallacies—or more for contradictions, those weary perfections, while swimming in mire; but more to love, as remaining silent, until angst flees its cocoon.

Day Three

Somewhere an arc, that subtle thump, as art’s communication; to drift afar, running through orchards, plucking orchids, wishing upon whimsies—to see for hearts, this space in souls, as gravid a brain-quake—while feeling dizzy, at wakes a dream, to envision our legacy: that preparation; those applications; that online labyrinth; to see perfection, in little a mind-well, as kissed a feather those sparks.  There’s something to us—attempting at words, while stirring cores: those achy roots; those expectations; as passing an onus by torch; such fluff, as witnessed disjunction, while another nods in agonies: this place in us; this ontic realization; while sketching a clown; that remote island, as lonely a gavel, where souls seek solace: that measure in time; that non-address; this ark as merely symbolic; to grip a petal or floor a pedal, while halted by visions: that gorgeous sunset; those wavy clouds; that purpose in lights a whisper; as daughters float, by rich acacia or oaken sap—that wooden panel; that porcelain vase; that helium balloon; as seeing portals, embraced by life, to realize oblivion—that coarse ache, fleeing through wildlife, while petting a jaguar—that miracle fire, as accused of love, to have gained a fortress: this curious vision, those jasper screams, that gown and hat; where spirits watch, as disenchanted, tugging at intentions: where unsaid was brutal, while comments were affective, afloat our colors.  

Journal Entry: None Address

It’s more to silence, that long-ago feeling, embedded in memories: that resounding voltage; that worrisome proclivity; that make-believe dream: as tentacles un-claw, while images appear, that realization of promise; this cold excursion, thrust into portraits, at wonders our imaginations; as much to render, this kiss of life, as wrought by inner mechanisms; this fretted force, to ignore arts, while pining for adventure: to burst a soul, as more to confession, to listen by frequencies; those segue challenges; that cryptic competition; that need to feel secure. Attraction lessens, where curses flourish, while strongholds are relinquished: our gelid scars; that social ointment; those fancies at opera with motion: if but to feel, at patience for years, to shift with interests: such suffocation; such fluttered reality; such that dance with mirrors; as, nonetheless, that inner wellness, while seated beneath pressures: this none address, as seeing cultures, at pleasures to embrace this journey; while captured hearted, those inner activities, a select feature by habit; where lights were graven, as signs would flourish, as left to admit this weaving chasm; and, notwithstanding, such concern, our motion as currents, suggesting life; as never communion, but more to powers, while severed asunder—that existential, that torn futility, or more this perfection of rhythms. It comes to vision, a metaphysical giant, at war with tentacles; or more a realist, pitted in structures, too wise to escape wisdom—that fallen voice, to curtail rebukes, while controlled by childhood pillars; that face of worms, by chance a pattern, at actuality a genius; as to so little, prior to absence, while chasing this desert mirage: if more to spirit, this far excursion, a fortress will form; as less to art, this inner reality, while eggs topple from nests—this mental fulcrum, as deeply spectacular, our fires but a spectrum of soaring. There comes confession, this kingdom within, entering by multiple doors; while tugging at forces, alive at wilderness, building sandcastles: that tile of purpose, that mutual soulquake, this fleeing as to garner reality—as soon an address, insofar, as exposure, this camera flipping his psyche; as mothers ponder, our breached assessments, while consoling our songbirds: this path as vetted, as we shade with signs, while blessed this portal of focus; indeed, to eyes, as cultured gems, our wealth our sanctums.

Fire Logs

I’m a bit aloof; a bit gifted; plus, our screaming passions. It comes by hankering; while shadowed in demons; revered as in-between: our locomotives; our prolific writers; caged by such beauty…to grovel by rites, this hitting and missing, aiming for perfection: that churn of words; those actions as images; our psyches a pool of minerals; but more our percentage, those illusive thoughts, as to witness something mourning. It feels volcanic, while currents are streaming, an instance in time created sorrows: at Thor’s Well, this place in souls, peering at a neckline—as so forbidden, as considered by lights, as beyond man’s possession: this sharing of wits, our Cotton Palace, but a second at a moment. I can’t shake it; this existential; those thoughts of futility: as such a hostage, gazing at naivety, at prayers, his daughter sees—this luxury of channels, that half tilted kettle, as filled with perceptions. I thought for college, to aid us at illness, this philosophical vase: if so to ponder, such electric guidance, insomuch, a world of troubles: our endless inquiries, as Goblin Valley, extended by such rich beauty; as building a monster, those hiking trails, this seated agitation; to find with life, such alienation, as feeling a bit unneeded; but this is art, our secluded rivers, our souls wider than our eyes; to meet a flower, fraught by disdain, at wonders those private thoughts; where souls turn ugly, while sharing affections, at turns, this need for adversaries; as fiddling whale bones, our paleontologists, uprooting Dead Sea Scrolls; that silent valley, that prolific writing, our appeal shifting through mindcaves…with such as fury, insofar, as beauty, a bit too involved; but this is payoff, while needing humans, if but for sanity; at deep remission, if not to include, this prolific growth. We die to something, affected by admiration, while adept enough to critique our legacies: those glass peaches; that island of cats; those priceless silkworms…albeit, allure dances, this incredible fever, a reclusive shies away; as dying in droves, at tears, to live, while living, nonetheless; such allergic paradox, where love is breathing, if moment to seconds: that prolific scar; that enticed wilderness; that ravishing beauty. I saw a lioness, by measures of smoke, while confused such identity: that feeling of hearts; that latchet of souls; those cities of jackets—as floored to features, snapping and falling, but called to adjust; that nice physician, as carrying lives, as mere a figment; where souls are graced, this passing in time, to have met by riddles; that creepy inquisition, as needing to know, while adjusting to rhythms…that fair attraction, at must to perish, while morphing into snowy owls.

Marigold Gardens

If to perish, our parish of madness, encased in butterflies—our souls to wings, failing into grayness, afraid of blacks and whites—that inner pressure, to know us as jokers, our aces mingled with questions: at felt dejection, at furious words, to relocate our heavens; this thing with minds, as adjusted subtly, that outer transformation; where daughters trickle, as melting into crevices, a fist full of night-owls: about our brains, and alabaster eyes, and confetti tears—dripping into magic, that deep devotion, to wonder of actresses—that fatal star, those mutiny thoughts, that action as so pure—as predicated laughter, something false arising glory, at points, an ultimate climax—to have that feeling, those Arcadian leaves, our masses to romance a travesty. It comes this way, our crystallized aphorisms, while baptized in psychologies: that gray vacuum; that silent question; that disappearance into feelings of rightness: if but a scream, this faint futility, digging through dirty laundry; as mother is trauma, while father’s forgiveness, our minds made of gypsum or more a legacy, this pain of senses, that agony of losses—crossing through cadenzas, at tears with armoires—two weeks with passions: those naïve petals; so bold with fiction; to crawl his mind with mere a gesture: that deep mimicry; too wise for forgeries; while too immune for feelings—this challenging claim, as insinuating disease, where normal is up for debate—as double agonies, this bathing of waters, that basin of foot odor—as humble souls, that furious temper, as adverse to theories: this place in souls; while gifted a curse; affixed to this particular cadence—to charm with ease, that fugue of existence, that bass to echo at lower regions: if died a soul, to morph as gods, about to frictions as Zeus: that deep deception; this feeling of healing; while altered at turns;—that triple loss, at earth such winnings; to appropriate songs;—while running through voices, this gong of children, so adept through cartoons: as soaring sky-gardens, alert a faulty wit, pacing through myriads of faces; that terrible hex, as flexed his mind, siding with truths—that elusive word, depended upon consensus, as representing a selective few; thus, margins as grieving, pigeons for company, and squirrels as rabid; to witness ruptures, infused with madness, as calmed a flower to palms. 

Effusion As Fuses

We become flawless this centered perfection at memories that facial explosion; nevertheless, this ache for infallibility as cautious as predators at wars those gregarious thoughts; as told his soul that welkin abrasion to form by nature this cold disposition; where deserts are paved with militants, by terrors a mirror’s rival, chasing to feel but music that dream.

I sat at panic, a bomb by brains, rebuking but thoughts—while cased in terrors, that tragic screen, embodied upon stages; at deep affects, changing tempos, our errors as created—this gulf of souls, introduced to thought-logs, pushing passed limits; to visit his face, this myth of madness, those yogis as mystics; while churning life, that cliff a fire, while leaping that piano’s fall: if but a well, to dig at brains, this failing as supported with destiny; to meet those eyes, as chiseled a tear, while angered to find truths; this grieving mansion, those rooms as morbid, our arcs as mourning; for light was boldness, this kiss of thoughts, while spirits roamed. I sat at magic, fumigated at life, apparent to souls this deep illusion; as not for humans, but mere perceptions, a bit to curses by love—as greeting faces, attempting portraits, as spacial as fields of grain.

Our lights are bleeding, at tethers our souls, by cleats that trek—those muddy ponds, that marsh mayfly, that song fused in pirates; to sing her soul, while covered in ashes, that dot by life our resurrection; where souls tangle, at angles through webs, by grace that resurrection; to fuel as souls, at midnight-noon, seeping through a blackdamp: that cultured death, as such to beauty, to want for flesh our disasters—that wellic soot, while smoking smaze, that beige guitar—where mother died, a son lived, while crying existence; this inner feud, alive but cringing, at affects a spell—those seasoned eyes, that incredible gaze, our years at living.

I sought out fires, such elegant souls, seeking agape—as present a myth, by stories a legend, our liturgy selling cries: if but to live, I’ll die a spirit, at sparks this wellic enchant—where father dances, a gift to lights, while born this maze—effective as falling, crawling through tents, at caves a newborn furry—in truths, a fib, as fibbing truths—so exquisite our tithes!  

Dear Love

Collect us, Lord—this gift we sin, stumbling through glory; that perfect aria, adrift a cadenza, by shards a morbid shadow. Forgive this life, by fevers a catastrophe, or more this mystic will; that jagged paradox, so embedded in sorrows, so infused by miseries; where men perish, that innate feeling, with much attachment to melancholia: that fuse flickering; that wick churning; those pictures with illness—as splattered supposedly, this forming of images, our perfect interpreters. It becomes obvious, that series of plights, at tears, pointing out this disconnection. I pray for Love, our songs by vineyards, made to feel inadequate: this terrible chaos, as fused a dream, while power imposes its nectar. We came for death, this fantastic war, as casualties resurrected: those lithic tablets; that deep confusion; where death gave up its ghosts: that swift return; this sharing affections; that faint disdain. I perish turquoise eyes—our mental captions, to know by Love, it wasn’t enough; where angels wrangle, as fallen voices, this mating of fairest dreams; as captured humanities, afield at stresses, while pictured by kindness. I forgot self, lost in plural moments, this feature of interpretations; as born to joys, this feather of daughters, to give by credits a silent gesture: where perfidious becomes normal; while quickened to perform; at membrance, that shocking smile. I’ll crave forever, as to stumble upon closure, while to reopen those mystic wounds; for this is life, attempting something spectacular, while moving from closure to a new obsession. Oh for honesty, this changing of hats, this Woman’s Work; where visions are sorted, rummaging burgundy eyes, while dying a bit by torments: our patient mothers; our forceful fathers; abandoned to dichotomies; albeit, falsely, this breath of reasoning, accused of playing this maverick. We’re blessed for life, as cursed for breathing, lost in this religious sphere; that need to worship, as filtered by dissentions, at wars on behalf of something immortal; that wretched feeling, as sighted alone, by force this affection to subdue. Oh for Love, this singing confession, while at tears for Love: this ocean wailing; our islands nudging; this need for one voice. I’m deep at perils, plagued by thoughts, at contentions with souls; that fabulous cave, as driven a sky-fire, whiles afloat a mind-wave; where hearts are stiff, this portrait of restraints, at woes, for worlds are dangling by wires. I met psychoses, seated at sessions—this immutable strength. I approached caution, without a blink of doves; where aches were nigh to crumble. We silenced music, as mother appeared, this person knowing by sights. I see it as colors; this forming of dreams; this catcher of souls; whereby, were deaths, as infused disappearance, while memories seeped into biochemicals: our fantastic screams; our fatal philosophies; as informed of solid dysfunctions; where parts fail to fit, this praise of theories, while something crucial is adverse: that song as sung; those souls afforded sanctions; that sullenness atop sacredness—as pure confusion, stringing theorems, charged by a series of glimpses; this chase of souls, while to grimace at resistance, for “It must be true”: this thin papyrus; our most tremendous thoughts; our deductions paved in iron; as returned a feeling, this love for Love, as pushing through revelation. We come to closure, while losing so much, at hearts this courage to function; as death is rebirth; while rebirth is life; where life is fury.    

Dark Interior (Pendulum)

Such casual malaise, as present uneasiness, this twist about music; at mercy his life, threaded by twines, as liquid as first impressions; to perish but lies, or live a miracle, so tortured that gorgeous insanity; while crawling systems, at hopes to evolve, that inner argument; where portraits fall, encased in trauma, our prying into majesties; insomuch, as turmoil, embedded in luxuries, our panic but heartbeats; to muse a castle, at paradise a garden, at Tai Chi a vessel; to kiss a flower, or nibble a petal—those roots we suckled as children: that epic perfume; those diamond earrings, that expression by tongues.  I’m running afar, those mistakes by heels, a bit fortunate this life: that inner shadow, at parish by nights, this fire thrusting its spear; to revolve as bullets, this petit confession, while outsung those wrung(s) of existence. I’m reading literature, as more an individual, this space afforded to misfits; our deep casualties, those inner personas, that crime to mourn such beauty; this fantastic tragedy, as caged a soul, this yen to break free; as piercing brains, while speaking truths, where afforded a close infraction: that beige light; those ruby terrors; this woman so far from silence: at Cajun rivers, where geese would swarm, our hearts mesmerized. It dies softly, this bliss by energies, to have written a sacred diary; while choosing infinity, at blank insanity, accustomed to composing to phantoms; this inner life, as confused reality, to feel less he confessed he missed the mark. I’m soon to wonder, concerning parents, if life has ran its course: that deep regret, to have said so little, while weary to have said too much: our social reigns, as infused pilgrims, entering into mental catastrophe—that mucky pond, those lucid visions, that falling as rising again a child; as reaching for love, that treasured support, accustomed to our feelings. It’s time for change, as soaring through ether, while grounded our wits; this terrible reality, flinging an Ouija board, musing Adele our ears; such inner crimes, our mirrors resuscitating, our brains flipping Spanish coins; to see us moving, trickled in particles, our heart-tickles as confetti; to sense it living, as deep for pressures, accustomed to perfection.  (We capture a glimpse, running through vestibules, feeding fragile realities—as born a centipede, an incarnated pigeon, as morphing into humanness: those memories merging, that song at cliffs, our music affecting our fountain of sights: if birthed through passions, as crashed a soul, this island expecting angels: that rabid arc, those pressured veins, our faces exploding with kindness; or more to softness, this infinite glow, as permeated by fusions: our lives as treasured, our souls as scattered, our intestines as wailing; that outer blueprint, impressing its fury, while aloof to negotiations; that deep resistance, as becoming methods, at which, are fiery streams). I’m wailing shadows, a fortnight of depression, as affected in prose: such rich meditation, a bottled firefly, running, mimicking haunted houses—that deep sincerity, as a full-length mirror, to wonder of interior furniture; as songs would trigger, that faint ignition, while a transmission shifted gears. I’m one with sadness, attempting to rev, at hawks for courage such plights; as fusing temperaments, this silent dance, a mirage unveiling—that force as thunder; our clouds as harbingers; our feelings as symphonic. I was once a child, at mnemonic devices, while appearing to self a mere fledgling: those curious slants; those mature segues; this angst rooted in pressures; as deep exaggeration, by every event, such preparations for feeling haunted: those weary winters; that flock of strangers; those spirits encased in auras: to vanish a thought; to arise anew; but a second to peace those kilns: that sagic life, as losing answers, alone engulfed by mirrors; as peeking his face, this person of dreams, to find as self such realities; while steeped in colors, or bland blocks, this vetted peace with analyses; as if we sung, this gentle clarity, where each response correlated with actualities: that hidden self, such faith in mirrors, while to encounter phenomenon firstly.       

Our Senseless Hearts, at Richness such Senses

Is the brain at oneness with its heart? Are they detached? Do they operate in unison? If so: Does the heart take the lead, or does the brain take the lead? These are timeless questions, without much need to marvel, but investigation, that interior sphere, may awaken a powerful conclusion.  

I’ve adored love, those khaki brown eyes, that sassy gait, our fevers as inborn; to yearn by eternity, as perished by births, alive our church-house gardens; that plural invention, while born to legacies, forever a peach uneasy: if died our current, to live our lives, I’d oblige miserably; but this is traffic, our classifications, while abased by honors; such function beheld, this friend of winning, our sins as venial pearls. I’ve adored love, that stalwart countenance, those analytical fingers; as wiser than I, afforded those quirks, far closer to shadows than wine; our beating brains, thrumming insanity, this voiceless sensation; as riveting passions, by oceans an opus, our imperfect sky-terrors—to adore love, our fanes our agendas, our severed naivety: that fuel that died; that inner screenplay; our firewood at rhythm those glints; while born such spirit, as looking so lively, by traces of miseries; that captive gaze, at smiles’ reluctance, a bit of treasures afloat at sorrows; insomuch, as breath, that melodic wave, as chiseled such awkward perfection; to fetter disdain, or even for love, that fettled obligation; but adored love, that deep hypnoses, at our shinning souls—to glisten as masks, this wanton of more, to unmask by fevers: that mental soulquake, as surreal insights, at rituals those epiphanies.  I’ve adored love, seated at muddy swamps, amused those argent clouds—impressed with ghosts, those tentacles our nights, that genteel curse: our neural ecstasy, that opalescent scream, our seaquakes so rich those aches: if channeled forgiveness, to die this want, as lacking in character—some flaw to cherish, our effulgent dreams, enflamed by love while stargazing. I’ve adored love, abated at moments, while infused by sudden pash; this world we live, while holding hostages, ashamed that Love is human. I’d forfeit us, if love would perish, as admitted such crying lies: our fairytales; this shifty paradise; such is agony those intense moments: our sky-lamps, as painting letters, as read our vignettes: those palms from clouds, as reaching our brows, to afflict with sickness such love: those notarized spells, aflame as wildfire, by seconds that rigorous ensoulment; where love is needed, this want of flying, at patience those stripes of sorrow: that deep anger, to channel our brains, while infused our phoenix music. I’ve adored love, this dreamlike adventure, building our dreamcatcher: that heart-relic, allergic with time, while afforded a deep realization; to want such vines, as forfeiting fruits, while never this light as love. We fever this night, such precious seduction, at rendezvous with spirits: our novel hearts, as never given, at least, at full capacity; to want amore, as to wreck our village, by twine to ravel such affections; that inner pavilion, at pace with souls, peering at inverted bodies; this chase of hearts, aspark a flame, quilted by measures of stability: our Roman eyes; our Grecian loins; this Frenchmen praising women: those lurid arguments; while chasing seraphim(s); our opus a nib by our skulls; as crying mercies, at needs a parasol, allergic to such high prestige: this black sheep, a bit to pities, such as history laughing. I’ve adored love, this gallery of feelings, while rocking gently: our gripping guts, this offhand adventure, such beauty at arts this voyage; where love was sought, afore thought was pressured, while believing in love prior to logic: our fair logistics, as a bit unraveled, to wish upon life such hastiness: our skylight spheres, crooning softly, at measures to have forgotten our legacies.         

We know its lifespan when it fails to appear. At that juncture we wonder about wholeness. 

Sparked a Dream

Their at tears, so still but fractions, at streams our passions; that beautiful womb, such bare perfection, such youth to brightness—as born delicacy, or torn majesty, at treasures those arts—to stencil a castle, as dreamed his mind, that luxurious river; as gravid nuances, as crazed mailmen—that missive missing its mark—where raveled a garden, those bleeding gardenias, as alive another soul: those bold gestures; that warming gaze; those deep infractions…to lie but hearts, as breaking with truths, our shivers as mystic boulders; as rapid fireworks, berserk a feeling, that last tryst, as so guilty that inner ethic—while tried such distance, aloof to phones, our calls straight to message centers: to pine by cranes; attempting grandeur; this piano as drilling heartbeats; as pure catastrophe, our mother’s apple, our father’s contagion: if but a tear, I’ll cry a river, if but that delicate palm: such ruby flesh, as flushed and pink, our terrors by carpets grieving: to know your hand, as but to dreams, affected as one living: that spider but symbols; that ostrich as sinning; for life sung perfection—while hearts run, trekking by dells, at meadows by tortures—that fabulous cry, as Tarzan aches, afforded one Pocahontas—our glamour as bleeding, to see such eyes, if but to meet again: falling by graces; shivering as sinners; amazed by flames our drifting cadence; to bawl by textures, this inner mystery, as affairs become lethal; to want a dream, but so afraid, while to cherish that perfect life; as flaming dejection, this field of lovers, chasing by winds jasper eyes; to flip a pill, if must we live, as kids running to mother: imagined a scar, by exhilaration, calling about a thousand times—that contemned machine, while watching our voices, fingers to eyes that carpet; to drift poetry, that deep extraction, by mere a rhythm: our inner music, that gravid signpost, our participation; as living grief, while singing Dixie, so blind those selfish eyes; to see us not, while gravel shatters, as glass is carved with images: insomuch, as life; insomuch, as feelings; insofar, as dying: this inner imp, that morning  fall, our doors as pure sanctity. I’ll die a sinner, at wants for life, by far adrift to silence: pining by arms; comparing fantasies; a man burning missives.  

Frequencies & Experience

We achieve by fires, this vestibule by hexes, at woes this curse as beauty: that frustration, that curious dream, this weight by depression—as unfamiliar, that familiarity, knee-steeped in soulmates: each for lyrics, abased as visions, soaring this dying fountain—alive forever, too clever by wits, while dying to something confusing: that pyramid of souls, about which, a scream, at torments to address your castle: those relic gates, as charged for currency, at wonders to relive traumas: our relative daughters; our histories as chaotic; or more this perfect configuration—as suffocation, along this shore, our fingers rooted in moist sands—while building naves, this flaming core, at wars to feel pass languishing—at superior functions, to ignore caches, afforded this interest that passing fancy—while gripping bridges, aflame a nightmare, too advanced to stumble—where hell is furious, this philosophical, as feral a soul by communications; to prance our tears, that affectionate palm, while controlling our dreams. (I’m at needs, this archaic space, by captivity pure rejuvenation—as held hostage, this cerebral war, at cares by reasons unbeknownst; where mother tatters, our feelings as one, our mirrors spinning—myriad emotions; torpid spells; our condition as gregarious loners. I know for seasons, this afflictive pendulum, at wants for something immortal: to reckon ghosts, abused our thoughts, at clarity that second in chimes: those delirious cries, that wailing floor-bed, our failings as constructive; through fields of pressures, this inner routine, that struggle a steep clave; where love is foreign, as needed closely, while advancing through perception: this hex as life, afflux repetition, as changed that moment to return; that fair adventure, those seas at islands, those faces appearing; as died a legacy, afforded defeats, where music rang asunder those skies. I’m warring fancies, as boxed within, attempting to claim ideals—while losing fevers, accustomed to wits, where love would play hockey; or gulf his soul, while planted in rivers, at curses to become so attached: this cryptic sorrow, as purifying justice, while aloof this ancient cry). It came a vision, as sorted through dusk, while becoming a fevered memory—at wants to vanish, that fantastic mishap, while brains churned a billion lines: that torrent wave, as pure explosives, while we pondered affections: that morbid identity; those loving hugs; while at purpose to disturb currencies: that mystic channel, as more at wars, this restrictive exegesis—as hermeneutics, this flying terror-dome, at ground zero with such vision—if be it a dream, to exclaim faith, running through mental shadows—to know this person, as distant a person, clawing at reflections—that question asked, as receiving darkness, to exclaim forever—that silent love, as mentally vocal, to arrive at certain awareness—seeking certitude, alert to havoc, while never that sacrifice: this young servant, as impermanent cessation, to sip by hearts this infraction: that treasured favor, to know your arc, as losing this cycle of windmills; as cold a fever, or icy that sweats, while fueled disharmony; to witness deaths, alive by furry, at music that special person. I’d cry to give—this legacy of rules, while maneuvering haphazardly: that inner falling, as failing adventure, while boxed a fortress; to claim eternity, that furious sword, saved by mercies a vehicle.    

Souls At Mirrors

I’m in-for-outs, afforded fantasies, a perplexed tear: a fantastic fantast, as furious as jaws, by seas our travels; to rise at glory, amused those eyes, as fancied a demented man—that leaping spirit, those immortal ghosts, by phantoms to reality. I’m in-for-outs, brightened but phlegmatic, accused of tyrannies; to fuse by dreams, our spirit-victuals, pulling by sky-cranes a swan; those aching forests, those talkative leaves, our brains at locks those dungeons. I’m in-for-outs, by streams a lotus, those oaken roots planted in rivers—as cursed with pleasures, to witness evaporation, the latter solidifying the former: those cryptic vines, that mental fire, those fledgling apes; wherewith, by visions, that endless staircase, that bowl of steaming peaches. I’m in-for-outs, this inner study, encrypted by every shift: at memories a bomb, by cadence a rhythm, at fingertips that childhood monster, (where mother died, as living our wings, accustomed to glass and flame), while racing kindly, against furious gusts, at once, ravished a soul to sinning. I’m in-for-outs, this ferocious breeze, an incarnated pirate, (those fevered roses, those tales of magic, to have reached ambivalence), wherewith, are cries, while pacing dungeons, at tender treasures this rift about joys. I’m in-for-outs, those terrific dyes, at hopes this immortal footstool; about which, are dreams, this fancy to adore, this mystic running through spheres: if but a daisy, as wilting with rain, afore an art above the portico: those racy stair-pits, that inside accordion, that spire peering at injustice, (to flourish a death-beat, at wars with sky-dreams, while pushing to divest a series of mindcaves), whereat, are visions, effected by delusions, while still at chase those mirages; to come with time, an inadequate feeling, while losing too much to afford. I’m in-for-outs, while wrestling lions, by graces, a laughing hyena, (at desert-cries, this tugging of tunics, those cagey eyes), where love is partial, while gripping its torch, ignoring frantic appeals; to die a captive, that mortar to brick—nations defined through slavery. I’m in-for-outs, at woes with confessions, abandoned to childhood dregs; as roaming brains, those fields of fruits, those tracks of iron; where phantoms form, while ghosts flourish, at tubs by naked shivers; to efface delusions, that immortal feeling, those wrinkles to cover bones as dying. I’m in-for-outs, as merely a mortal, confused by such our legacies: while scratching flesh; that trickle of blood; that rabid sensation: (aroused a notch, our pinkish scalps, so far that portal of screams); insofar, as life, this inner confliction, by aches those principalities: adrift with churches, at rifts with persons, affected sorely this woman; while tears vanish, as sudden to anger, as shifting internal dynasties: that cultic hunger, if by terms created, to opera by mysteries—as never coming, but never leaving—some type of sickness; whereto, are screams, to desire but never wanting, fleeing paths paved by cheetahs: that casual mercy, at times with self, at wonders that leaking scalp; to frighten brains, that realization, to imagine a person that mirror; at wars with thoughts, at treasures with breakthroughs, afforded that dance as imperative; to sense with love, this human entity, to conjure through induction our worldly aches: if chanced that life, to censor such shame, as pursuing this incumbent destiny, (where souls meld, as gelid as warmth, effected by this greater force), as father’s fathom, that immortal irony, by heart, to have loved a kindred spirit; insomuch, that passion, to write like fountains, and learn like prodigies. I’m in-for-outs, this Sun Tzu drilling, at tears that peaceful path, (as fire to cadence, this shift in dungeons, to imagine I lost something), where ceilings laugh, as mirrors mock, this need for speech; as torn with psychs, afforded this method, while too grounded but haphazardness; to find for balance, this pushing of weakness, if but that flight into psyches; while mystics sigh, this beautiful scar, affected by mother’s essence: those dreams of dreams; those songs of wilderness, that cultic fire; to advance through silence, while at chatter with wings, affected with merit those gestures.       

Pure Interior at Cadence for Freedoms Becoming Caged

By clumps of grass, by examination, those hamsters by interior; while pitted a soul, seeping into mischief, by manners a monster; as adorned in fire, that engine of souls, while disenchanted with language; to reason by madness, this inward cigar, this feeling primarily self—engrained in engrams, this pagan soul, at membrance but living literature—as perfect philosophy, this tragedy of omens, this captive majesty—to stumble by angst, upon perfect a fixture, our hearts so simultaneous—by earth a cage, by heaven such freedom, by some angel of rumination: surpassing charms; falling by travesty; while beauty proffers danger: that velvet cloak, as lightning but a dream, as befuddled by intentional allure: by pure seduction, at something unwanted, those insecure cries. We perfect pain, so early as self, during those brave hours: bewildered such death; ecstatic at responses; as resilience shatters attraction; by life our fledgling, this flapping of storms, at membrance such haunting abandonment: such concentration, informed by intuition, this portal sipping illusions—as transported, by sudden keenness, reaching abrupt conclusions; to miss resistance, as kissed such resilience, by glance a permanent schism: to garner palaver, while at heart’s vexation, where neither afforded such love; that ten year war, to have met a jewel, but too evolved our sentiments. By sad thorns, or maddening briers, this projected tumbleweed—wrapped in oaken tenets, a pair of fools, laying claims to reality: if but authentic, this peril of thoughts, if tiles but figments—as lost for innocence, accused of dying, while said accusers wrestle such turmoil: while flaming at points, our loss of souls, those persons with few demands; at treasures so low, accustomed to running, this pagan by arts grooming dreads—as frightened by nothingness, as averted by deliberateness, this frightening reality; as born for love, while adorned by love, as choosing our pressures to love; as motion through time, this permanent feeling, while it dies in dynamics—this thing as motif, by resounding befuddlement, this man screaming rebukes—as fleeing this soul, so close his scars, as afforded one last illusion—at arts for flowers, that mental desert, as charged one volt: that retrieval of particles, as retreating through meadows, while fire was sudden a message. By blue moons, or savage lyrics, as captured by cocoons—this inner magnet, by thoughts a brain, while vicious an entity; or more to pleasures, while infusing souls, some type of channeled science—that metaphysic, as crying our worth, while private such ruins; to kiss by arts, this thing of majesty, where arms are want to experience; as going deeper, at wants for more, where days are gratuity—that grace of minds, that white noise, our colors chasing winds; as wanting nothing, aside for inclinations, if but it left: this mission of brains, confused by intentions, to do as priests while to label it spirit: that conflicting image, by inner mechanisms, while to flog inclinations. 

We Sit Through Flux

This space, so allergenic, so at wars with self; to flee to mirrors, or grind to music, our haste filled with ghosts; our pleasures falling, by webs our weeping, fraught by nothingness; to harness a feeling, while dependent on life, this vessel by aches our countryside: our existential, that glisten at darkness, our echoes seated at vestibules—to arrive as souls, imbued by fury, at measures that touching of eyes; wherewith, estranged, that resistant image, those blurry faces. I think about swans, such furious vigor, a terror-dome of appetites: that slight jealousy; those hawks amid waves; that curious insensitivity; while effused by mother, such pouring emotions—a decade finding self—as social location, or physiognomy, that psyche of pigeons—at flapping cadence, our eyes with memories, our souls threaded in scarlet; to fly at random, that deep experience, at one that cosmic spirit—as afflicted pieces, that accumulation, to be at treasures those years; whereto, are ghosts, that childhood ether, as sensed a bit unfelt; by which, are scars, as sung a lake, to arrive feeding egotisms: our outer parade, at wars those inner feelings, as announced by condition. I think about love, as concrete actions, or abstract words—those fevered footlights, by ocean shores—that midnight phoenix…as felt a dream, by cherished emotions, flushed by experience; as vetted feelings, that inner compass, to admeasure sensations; those deep psychologies, while reaching iron, while smelting philosophies: that casual grin; that influx in times; our fragments fraught by unrest; to scratch by skies, this element of peace, while afforded pure realization: this day affair, as rooted application, to arise a mystic jewel. We know methods, while embedded in souls, as participants of warfare: that long tress; those inner symbols; they measure this constructed life—where souls flourish, accustomed to shifts, adjusting a lithic mentality; by arts, that flux, as fluid with time, our willows bending; to imagine flux, as winding through spheres, with such rapid velocity. I’m low but moving—at wars with nothingness, while at pleasures that glorious cadence: that manifesto, that dissertation, that inner newness—at wails to adjust, this second in history, at preparations for new credence: those pearl hymns; that mental liturgy; this feeling coming into being; as one by harshness, at sudden warmth those shivers, at arcs our infrequent souls.

Kettles Are Leaping But Angst To Reach

Such treacherous joys, our talkative sins, at pyramids by wombs; fraught by lights, or lights as fraught, by chaos insidious screams; while terror builds, our trembles for aches, at rounds to prevent treason—that captive prison, allergic to decency, a bit by treasures, immortal; to die as agony, that treacherous voice, held hostage by greed: if cried an arc, that arc to cry, we flourish that incredible death: our pegs removed; our fluids in buckets; our nights to treachery: our trees poisoned; our tarantellas mourning; that vandal at excellence, destroyed—as purposed enchants, those siren eyes, this urgent voltage, sensations; to lather in oils, such weeping ash, by nightcap a fortress; as dreamed a demon, imbuing wings, as sung a victim…our inner mercies, that illness by crawling, at noon a tease that ice-pick; this hybrid legacy, afforded a token, by traits this mirror, singing: our shredded souls, at misery with love, an ear but a seashell our callings…that damaged silence; our tarred dreams; this wretched rocket our moon…as terrible violence, asleep at downfalls, awake to tyranny—that mirror’s image, as fueling our names—ashamed to look backwards…while skies are tainted, our trance dejected, at peace such humiliating joys: that living room sink, as sunk his life, while forbidden at best a dream…that sagic air, as dreamt a minx, as courting rare perfection: to give a wishing well; to renege by silence; where enchantments were fleeting; that web by freedoms, at peace with souls, at engines that angered reflection—as reflexive sadness, by atonement a felony, while controlled internally: that held position, as sudden with meaning, while our drapes prevent beige lights…that casual pursuit, as typed out of existence, where misery enjoys its company; or captive joys, to brainstorm a fortune, that fire-blast as discarding portions: that runaway silence; that feeling by persons; those abstract conclusions; where intrusion reigns, at fury to read it, this love by caves: that treacherous island; that caption in tint; our godly consultations…as grieving by wounds, or dying a phallic spin, addicted to such fair features: those months by sin, as prior to deaths, before such newness…while revved a villain, at tears to gainsay, unsure of classifications; to have this journey, as departed dearly, our eyes about spires: that bottom rung, to need beliefs, while afforded those bluebirds: if treasured our souls, to seek by justice, at measures out Jiu-Jitsu—that gentle art, furious cadence, at screams as more than strangers.       

I see fire, this thicket of weeping, as sinning that weekly motif: if such to die, our wicked splendor, accustomed to darkness; our mystique memoir, your pearly brain, our angst bottled to seas; insofar as metals, our bleeding irons, made privy to marbles…accused of savagery, a pair of fantasts, ensouled by decades: our phantom status; our symbolic chains; this cultic fire: if but to live, as feared detachment, peeking for grinning those subtle currents; as ours was cadence, that cryptic explosion, our nectar that taste of oblivion; to wander this journey, this opus treasure, that tinge by colors our livings…as so concerned, while to harvest wrongness, as mentioned a gesture seeking rightness…that inner cathedral; our spellbound influx; that reason giving life to schisms. It was never gentle, as infused disdain, while admiration sought its music: that surreal feeling, so sacral a dream, while arriving at similar fires: that inner tremble; that deep upsurge; that boundless nightsong—as evincing a series, this inner conduct, while sipping one to get there. 

Created Essence

I see us, such embedded screams, while losing texture; aloud as graces, this space of Quixote, those countryside jeers; our courage by stars, infused a dream, gripping palms in prayer; our mystic limbs, bleeding injustice, at woes to cherish afflictions: that inverted mirror; those welkin leaves; our designs to destiny. I see us, adoring distance, as pure concentration, our leaping arts; by consideration, that inner fuse, conflicted with thoughts: our valleys morphing; our kisses waning; at sudden, such rejuvenation; and angels swarm, this swamp of dungeons, pitted with Jeremiah—that lasting Aum, as fire to gods, where agony became richness: that magnet opus, as lived our tragedies, abusing our screams; an earth by stilts, to effuse catastrophe, while pleading this absent affection. Such confusion, to outlive convenience, while groping silent walls—that stalking vestibule, that lurid flower, our inquiries as complete. I lost a dream, those years to violence, while horrified by traditions: those casual dictums; those rabid fiats; our texture by cryptic amazements: this soot of souls, embodied in growths, while afloat such cadence; to sing as sought, this feeling of losing, while gaining by new shadows; that curious madness, as by kinship, ablaze’d by blueprints; thus, a soul, grieving by joys, alive but bawling a whiff—those exospheres, embedded a curse, while at love an anchor; where never a thorn, that mystic flower, as so symbolic a scar; to plant essence, as connected hearts, to feel our waking breaths. I see us, sitting by understanding, as standing to walk away: this dell of rules; this invasive windfall; by closure our myth. I see tendons, extended from skies, reaching that faraway space—as cultic presence, so close afar, that jar of pressures; to capture by witness, this tale of angels, by chi a yogic fire; abreast to fairness, as attended by ghosts, while aches spoke in cadence; that rhythmic feeling, as low but enough, to enroot an inner image: those beige nouns, as sitting in-between, this cosmic rift. I’m apt for reality—at treasures for esteem, while too affected to say love; that drastic shift, this inch through graves, while at portraits designing that life; as sold to hunger, while adrift through features, as to worship a set of drums; that in for outs, that perfect façade, to settle by wilderness; while saying nothing, this analytic, by chains that leap of hearts: while haunted dearly, by essence an omen, our flyleaf compiled of spells; to break it by lance, that sudden welt, to wade through energy; that torn excursion, those tackles of rain, this task as daunts to souls. I see us, so pulled afar, to rue our voice, while at aches such tension: our gravel to wings; our passions to turpentine; our footprints wilted through sands; where love is creeping, devoid of delusions, predicated upon mysticism; this thing he claimed, at little for evidence, assigned to defining a certain texture: that feeling to bones, that spasm to souls, that ache to hearts; as living vignettes, our palms to petals, our minds to specters; this furious sage, afar a scream, running through surreality: that lotic dream, that freshet river, our entwined phantoms; as naked tears, to remember unlikeness, while conditioned by familiarity; as held by freedoms, our wilderness of declines, pitching prose to séance eyes—while hoping grayness, this estranged feeling, as so removed from self: that internet bouquet; that iron pastel; this capture exceeding charades—as cascading beauty, that invasive absence, our mystic parade; as more a pardon, that sudden disappearance, as returning during a.m. hours; as songs sing, our encaged theatre, by essence this inner texture; to pull a current, as so emphatic, our meanings to memories.        

One Last Dance

Their lives agony, such rich traumas, as explained seasonal bruises; to laugh by dramas, those steady shakes, at liquor with vengeance; or tears accursed, that silent anathema, that churchly hex—as sewn in pillages, a pirate at seas, a seamstress at lives: if once to live, as thrice to perish—strangers unraveled! In retrospection, we ignored our diamonds, this wretched adventure—while ignored at thoughts, that fleshly infraction, at opera’s theater; to sin by violence, this unphysical life, to scar a soul such negligence; this intimate curse, as sung through terrors, to pull us near; as ruined, by far, forsaken’d, while destiny laughs hysterically: that moving vessel, from person to soul, at horrors to live gracefully. Words are sparse, where swans are crucial, as we never see—that hectic sunshine, those Asian eyes that hex as mourned this life; while children fawn, as seeing perfection, that feeling by culture, as payoff; at such abandon, that fabled illusion, to cross by turns that chalkboard: by critical thoughts; those laws of reason; where humans first appeared; as realized sadness, at blessings to feel torn, while religion becomes an island. Escape is laughter, our bodies to stress, as never acknowledged—appearing as rites, to scar a soul, where brooks to shadows this sight of hysteria: that devilish grin, as searching for chaos, while living at fears—that stadium affair, as cursed a jewel, to arrive by chance that pulpit; where daughters writhe, at intimate truths, that feeling of nausea as arts; that troubled nothingness, those years to havoc, as confessed an error of lights; as face to rug, or tears to ice-picks, those words devoid of historical cache; afforded a sickle, imbued with violence, at treasures to feel such exhaustion; as scolding father, for unseemly thoughts, that world once so perfect: that flight by secrets; those ignored tales; that colony of victims; as to hell with men, this pursuit of children, where catastrophes appear appropriate—as threshing brooks, asearch for gems, while deer run frantically; as piercing, through sky-scrapes, this apish insanity: infused with dreams, those awkward conversations, while a psych taps into trauma; of course, by random address, as appearing haphazard, while explained with precision. It becomes a legacy, this fuel of feral fires, while never held accountable: that faraway scream; those alley cries; that furious grandfather—as losing sight, as not our little girl, while grandmother sits agaze’d: this rift in time, as purely one-sighted, where only one soul is at faults; this make-believe, those multiple checkmates, those parlors resonating that exact name; where souls anger, as said a jewel, as mistaken by men: that sanded tale, as sung afar, where negligence takes refuge.   

Agnes’ Fires

Such majesty that love, through deserts convicted, by terrors a shadow: to come by deaths, tiptoeing by orchestras, as scraping but surfaces: at infant hearts, such magic by winds, accustomed to silence: that moody growl; that howling voice, our sky-domes as soulquakes…while ever abandoned, this law as carried, a void within a vortex; wherewith, a palm, that curious squirrel, but an entity by brains: those fallen symbols, that sheet of music, those dreams screaming for salvation; as aching arcs, at madness by cadence, floating in but out of reality; as shifting through spaces, a snail as confidant, a caterpillar as wings. We tore a vision; so many years at practice; our praxis by grace a terrible blessing; as shot our souls, that pistol as liquids, those vines as harbingers; while tugging at serums, that inner affinity, as palmed in psalms a sinner at liturgies: those warm baths; that cold exosphere; such churning admiration; where souls perish, at horrors that intervention, standing by umbrella a scar or more a theme, at science our graces, by treasures a contradiction or arts as parodies, extended by sorrows, fleeing as reaching purgatory; that beige lava, by inner strata, such leverage as out-sung an omen—at voice a phantom, abased as plagued our opera, as overseers contend for powers. We topple by fires, while stretching our eyes, a bit so familiar; as artful wings, by rapture to mercies, afflux an atmosphere: our grieving garrets; our floret frenzies; our nerves as fevers astray—while failing graces, our nectars so vile, at taunts by mirrors while heaving: if sought a soul, those tiny fingers, as laced by eternity; that vigil magpie, distorted in motion, that mayfly bathing—at pirate status, so chiseled with times, as grime to souls affixed—where potion stirs, by flames those keys, such eyes unlocking dungeons; as sewn a torment, such beauty at hells—that humid mire…where curses knit, that inner symposium, that mental symphony—while at stars a fugue or terrors that inner harmony, as attempting to harvest madness: those late excursions, as feigning with humans, this measure by wills those cries…to mischief souls, as sung a dove—those purple whys.       

Oh for spells, screaming at sorrows, at pace, this deep loneness or more infusion, by vigorous dreams, seated ere an audience…those perfect pitches, as haunted a home, leering at windowsills—that oaken tree, that outer synchronism, that trenchant exorcism—as mothers fly, by fathers’ stars, that jaunt through mirrors—as sensed a monster, while pleading for mercies, at terrors those singing whispers: that shadow of fires, that pyre of bones, this incarnated feeling; as effacing time, while outrunning clocks—that pendulum ticking…those edited footprints, as laundered his soulprints, sitting atop roofs plucking leaves: that dreary moon; that vocal silver; our ivy by chains our knells: if lived to chaos, those seconds adored, a corset as royal.   

Rainbow Arcs

I see us spinning, at waves about life—so casual about love: this strong fit, as wanting more, while adjusting through storms: those brown roots; those mahogany leaves; that diary shared with love; as pondered our meadows, our carefree gallops that valley fraught with cranberries; where roses speak, that fragrance of souls, our pulpits amid lagoons: if died a heart, that arc to perish, as resurrected a tender touch; as much to live, our accordion winds, as fleeing dragons that burgundy princess: that cadence grieving, as singing amore, while tortured a torch-beat—that furnace wailing, as sung a river, at chase that pace of distance: such beauty a star, arising in bloom, as buoyant a subtle sonnet; where legends blossom, our immortal lakes, as dipped to arise a queen. I see us grinning, at tears with joy, as parted by seas; that electric light, as thumping our souls, alive peering at a fortress; as lived a legacy, such melodic psyches, as cried a furious moon; where symbols maneuver, if but our minds, to court through waves those fitted wings; as adrift through canyons, that inner kayaking, that feather by ink such manuscripts; insomuch as love, our majestic sun, as arising at midnight: that opened treasure-box, those golden trinkets, that sterling silver: if but a memory, those childhood dreams, as to manifest such visions: that princely soul; that Highclere castle; that Wilton House den: if but a daisy, as infused by petals, hugging a myrtle tree. I see us spinning, laughing by miracles, so far a storm; afloat by eagles, at clouds with pegs, at art with vengeance; that eternal passion, carving a vase, tracing such riveting calligraphy; while studying Latin, reading old tomes, perfecting our understanding: that inner umbrella; that Grecian trestle; those vines clawing our synthetic fences: if but a dream, we drift through time, alive this second of comforts; while silent doves, bathing in liturgies, swarming through Gregorian Chants: those chain-links; that mental fencing; our hearts at Marshall Arts; as wishing well—upon a dandelion, our mane filled with leaves; to saunter gently, wasting Gosset, nibbling strawberry cookies; where raptures dwell, amid our fortune, as torn as logistics.          

Caribbean Gardens

We imply mimicry, to sing from vines, at once, a thriving person: those chateau eyes; that silken blouse; those fitted denims—along his life, dyeing mane, those cocaine adventures; to dream by jaguars, that runaway cheetah, those beige Nikes; to brave a locket, our grandmother’s tears, at vexes that grandfather clock: that sullen pendulum; that anxious scribbling; that perfect image—as sought our dreams, while so afar, a trinket atop a lamp-stand: our burgundy notepads; our gnawing of pencils; those indelible tooth-prints. I clawed a vision; to sky a fountain; imagined as a fool; as craving fire, to seek eternity, a bit unqualified: our leather belts; our spiked jackets; our attitudes in Vogue; that tender reed, as born a giant that pile of twigs: to curse by winds; while nonchalant; by virtue to cast a spell; that concentration, aloft a dream, at desires a bit forbidden: our Cajun stew; our gumbo and rice; those black eyed peas: our years as children; that brief excursion; so young seated with adults. I cried death, imbued by lyrics, as fueled a pyre; that possessed venture; that liquid countenance; this fancy escaping our hearts; to travel afar, at thoughts to psychs, at woes to realities: if died a legacy, to arise a fool, at love this ancient vice: that mahogany gin; that flying mirror; those ivory Reeboks—as flitting a kite, while milking a dream, that faraway escape…those months to Italy, that walk through Germany, that British Flag—as saw his life, abreast by illusion, pining that staircase vision: at purple tulips, or pink begonias, those jasper snails—as more a scream, delivered to demons, asearch damnation—to speak it gently, an unlikely muse, where a poet desires truths; as lived a failure, courting rainbows, while projecting articles: those Danish cookies; that Irish music; those days—religious wars; to beckon a face, while afar a meadow, at purpose to mingle that brook. I’ve lived an empire, perfected in tattoos, at grief this inner merry-go-round: that flawless dream; those sweaty toes; those gothic nails; as clawing telepathy, or scraping membranes, so far adjusted every mora: while dying she lives; at curses those leather curtains; that vase chunked at mirrors; to see for screams, that seductive distance, amused by Forest Gump: that childish attraction; those inabilities; as to kiss a secret blend. I ponder this way, at mere a gaze, ablaze’d by prose: those shifting streams, as perfected with science, as deliberate by assistance; our arts to sins; that Barbadian tact; our sinister holiness: those wines with grapes; that pineapple daiquiri; that symbolic watermelon—to seek a muse, as distant as time, while afar that infant’s hope—as pulling faith, threaded in doubts, to become a fool with images: that inner theft, to anger a colony, at research that broom in Africa.  We know for words, while secluded dearly, at sacrifice to admit admiration; but more to arts, as pleased to compose, afforded our fire.        

Brazilian Entity

Our zenic cries, steeped in intuition, afflux consciousness—as torn rebels, or rabic lovers, trailing inner raids; that Tibetan mask, that Egyptian den, our Cajun dyes; while more to cages, that furious flying, adrift such darkness; as kissed a palm, at years to Cesar, at souls to fires. I’m running courage, aborted but here, those lives to chaos; while father binges, mother dies, our aunties by far a shoulder turned; that bleeding vestibule; that dejected priest; those deacons a sight robotic: our pagan altitude; our mental longitude; this glacier seeping into dreams; where persons fall, a gleeful rug, those heels piercing kidneys; as cried his soul, wailing by private rooms, running that endless hallway: those tortured ghosts, that apparition, that fiery ceiling. I’m catching waves, a bit incarnated—our eyes to visions; those foreign faces, leering his inner soul—those sudden chills—as facial confliction, that tension of psychs, as expressed an extra brain—where daughters ponder, while muses drift, apart as puzzles those aphotic valleys. I’ll shift a turn, at churning explosions, to wonder of her life: that soft agony; or beauty blooming; or both our sullen songs; to capture a glimpse, at sudden an entrance, as hell be damned we loved. It turns an island, that gorgeous insanity, about as stubborn as Jonah; where pastors die, aloof that golden plan, a bit concerned with mercy: that flaming business; that exempt legacy; that need as crying an overseer; as tiles are grieving, our mental siblings, our curse as perpetuated.  We’ve skipped a subject, agaze’d by something unsaid, while at love this furious soul: those attic steps; that falling ladder; our aches to a pleasure controlled; or more a fire, as said unbearable, while we run as ruined as Roadrunner: that searing wit, those glacier passions, feeling fetid by emotions: that terrible sin, as filled with luxury, to return to self abased: as cried our souls; at wars our inclinations; so troubled by pleasures: as torn asunder, this craving of pains, while satiated by glamour—this inner demon, such vocal desire, picking by threads our plastic couches; where love would perish, insistent a soul, this ache as driven our mental armoires. I could to love, at souls to love—so selfish our catastrophe; or more a gift, flickering as flaming, by thirst an inner motion; as alive to wellness, a bit unwell, trekking meadows by caves.    

Is it life or death, our Australian breathes, at honors so low—as but a dream, infused by classics, at unawares an orchestra: that chiseled feeling; that deep restraint; that atypical personality; as never for whims, where strangers depart, but ever for love that mystical art; where legends form, as needing eternity, that kef by life a vision. I’m torn a diamond, as shorn a sheep, attempting that graduation: that earnest paradise, at African towers, by far a group of shamans; that rich psychology, those neurotransmitters, that time to sobriety; as seeing daughters, in shrouds of gold, infusing this universe; as apt to sing, effusing liturgies, by chorus a legion of angels; to cry our moon, as parted a nightmare, by shores to fall gripping muddy waters: that feral sun, afire in Sienna, our classics leaping through dialogues; that casual furnace, as kilns to brains, where psychs structure that crying theses: to deaths with sorrows, as immersed fully, at hearts this type of tranquility: as sought to love, as more to commune, by thoughts a bit restricted.  

Glass House

I’m pitching boulders, so many planks, an intricate concerto—as music dies, our souls to cauldrons, that beautiful music—abandoned afar, as one deranged, this sudden seat of morals; or more a charlatan, or rather a demigod, or some sort of sagic priest; indeed, by woes, as curious to womb, this tragic event so plural; as moons grieve, our sun(s) to sadness, our daughters infused. I bled a teacher, looking so blindly, afforded a grave error: that reputation, as shattered a dream, a man infected; this mental haunt, at tortures a siren, at pleasures a friend; to remember love, this sacred vest, as churning through drum-kits. I thought by roses, pricked by passions, prodded by ghosts; to witness faces, at bloom in Agnes, at goth with Hannah—that melancholia, as reaching membranes, while sparked an island: that serotonin, afloat his mind, his lips that taste—as moving mountains, some type of breed, accused of dying; as crazed his heart, that leap by junctures, that woman so silent: as vocal pantomimes; or silent chirping; at brains those locks couldn’t be picked: that travesty screaming; that classic bleeding; those violins igniting pandemonium: if sought his life, than to death our souls, as so entwined our rooms are melting: that floorboard fire; that mirror aspark; those falling feelings; as more to dreams, those sculpted features, our mane at mourning(s). (I confess it, by human harmonicas, this human at tortures: if sought our pleasures, rapt in neatness, but so infused; for minds are bodies, engulfed in music, our treasures grieving blissfulness; as seeing angels, this course of times, our classrooms breaking from dungeons; as lived his art, immortalized in scriptures, too many psalms to grieve: that terrible affection; that heinous attraction; this woman but a kindred soul: as old as skies; as young as fledglings; at remorse this feeling by nature; as saw our lives, spackled upon canvases—as for wretchedness such beauty; that dark glow, framed in Lorde, those violent motions—at urns but tears, fleeing from portraits, that palm a spider his wall—as seeing visions, that visceral feeling, while kissed a demon at journeys: that far cry, as amused our cohorts, so infatuated with being normal—that golden spoon, at sordid secrets, as troubled as Bugs Bunny. I can’t but love, at treasures to perish, while at deserts to mourn: that tragic castle, to ollie a fortress, while reaching one soul: those shimmering shields, while gripping delicate crafts, as so infused a dream; where sages sing, while carriages await, where cherubs enter silence: that horrid beginning, as appearing in souls, to sale by control such carnage. I must appear, to this self as grieving, a man to his mirrors as two conversed: if be it a scream, as vocal as midnights, by structure a curse; where mother yields, those soft fingers, as caressing a son’s heartbeats).

There’s psychs and pills and pills and psychs and joys for pains and pains for joys, afforded rain, afforded verses, as long to live a studied person.  I see it moving, that inner crane, accursed a cross, that flickering flame; to spell a second, or harness a scar, this soul so brave at wars with love: that refined sentence; that sphinxly heart-race; while encased insistent feelings.  It could be minds, at shivers to explode, while fetching that perfect composition; as deep for trenches, alive this ache, where too much is merely enough; to evolve as spirits, that locomotive, reaching to escape that sentence; where souls live, as infused by opera, while tribal that art of souls; by far a killing, this person to guillotines, afflux creative pressures; as more to pleasure, that wrenching feeling, at trauma this myriad of cryptics; to witness self, in mere an instance, as fusions to capture that mirror: those bold cries; that infant portrait; our fathers multiplying baptisms. 

Graduation (The Swan)

We fever the swan, ecstatic to marinate, by wings a fatal obsession: if mangled our hearts, at vultures to breathe, influenced by awkward kindness; that inner breath, as to picture images, afloat by dreams: our casual heartaches, at missions through Canada, floored to psalms; that feral lightning, as brains eclipse, this island too vast to contain. I love the swan, our buried treasures, as affixed to fires; that Buddhist’s stream, that freshet arch, our darkness by thunder as grieving. I’ve traveled roads, speaking with magpies, effused by tender waters: that turquoise pond; that shower of diamonds; this ache as convinced of silence; to feel such motion, engraved in helium, while oxygen contorts our angels. I love the swan, to gallop through travesty, as mere flesh structured by bone: that cryptic surge, as infused a legacy, while at hopes an early confession: those violet mistakes, as cherished over love, where I spoke out of rage: aflame a scar, as dealt this cabbage, where gumbo stood afar: by lights a skycraft, this gracile swan, our neighbors shunning rascals; as more to flights, singing abed, by measures a protector of siblings: if be it life, to soar exospheres, at paces a poetess; as, too, those visions, affixed to science, at chase that midnight stallion: such flowing mane, such mystic grace, afire a storm fiddling firebrand; as reading letters, or forming pyramids, our guts trembling with spirits; to find as chosen, this liquid affinity, as sliding into crevices; while studied a scholar, that brain to scanners, those nibs to essays; where waves are artful, that warming torch, at coals to lips to prophecy. I love the swan, at hearts as churning, affected but little our prevarications; as ceilings crumble, at sudden a gesture, this life I’ve studied so long; as mere a lad, peering at patterns, our living room filled with strangers: that recurrent spin; those floret pebbles; this forest of dreams—at hearts a spaceship, in needs of application, while walls churn unto beige: but will a mansion, filled with rubric rooms, as convicted to pursue greatness; to answer destiny, floating through campus, at studies with brains to fires; attending to motion, that buoyant force, accused of more than living. I love the swan, this coppice of jewels, by experience our causes; to witness such grayness, to have held such disposition, filled with vim a lively energy: as sung a puppy; or drummed a falcon; such as singing close with tunes; to know by grace, this face of souls, afire a mindcave.     

Phoenix Twins

Nightfall

We move at pace, leaving our knells, at courage to love our sins—that brisk cry, as seasoned in fires, nibbling this inner taint; to capture frailty, as morphing strengths, those thoughts carrying particles; where fathers grieve, this beautiful death, our daughters becoming fires. I live as us, adrift a cloud, admiring rebirth: that frantic heart; that lethal language; those nuns to portals; where art is furry, while furry is death, where both attribute to life. We came for glory, our horrid story, that white dress—as married to tragedy, that curse as grieving, while we surge to amend disasters: that terror as stars; those bars as affection; that legacy as confronting morals; where love is sultry, seated in denims, a soft necklace beckoning respect; to die with pressure, afforded one glance, as to compose an inner tome: that golden cross; that mystic atheist; that figure distorting rules: our societal cuffs, as cleaving for structure, this wealth as bleeding his brain. It comes to towers, that watchful terror, while screaming through strong affections: this effaced soul, at wars to palm flesh, while threshed afar a dream: our pillows moist; our bodies clammy; our rooms humid with ghosts; as struck a nerve, to confess his honor, while afforded that feeling: stressing for broken; clutching for falling; abandoned to conquering immortality; that soft omen, as thrust his logic, a man by graces a fire; where love leaks, seeping into wilderness, where coyotes nestle with mystics. It comes by measures, that fiddling through personality, to push a chess piece: as adored a scar, while afloat a cloud, to strike by entrance that calm; while at joys a soul, to appease a dungeon, announcing proudly such voyage: those chandeliers; that outspoken ottoman; that tint by ambiance; as died a soul, to arise as soul, this mincing of souls.

Day Two

I’m sparse to speak, as attending funerals, at silent magnitudes; that ivory flesh, embedded in hells, at smiles to perish; this slant of brains, those distorted mora(s), affected our haunted souls; that inner dwelling, our earth as draining, our swan as cringing: indelicate souls; liquid fires; a curse to afford blessings: that soft music, those mental mountains, our horrid symposium—as cried vexation, while torn a phoenix, flipping pages frantically: if must to die, our years to betrayals, our thoughts to tortures; where pagans rise, afloat a scar, flinging from brains our bars: that gentle kiss; those rolling eyes; that whetstone as patience; as heard a soul, that deep distress, abased by mirrors; that inner dream, while screaming at bats, that flicker into twilight. I’m torn a man, searching his soul that tug-a-war forgiveness; while asking amends, prior to lights, where truths are hidden: “oh wretched man, to sing of love, while stealing prides. Oh dejected soul, as crazed as jackals, forfeiting love”; indeed a curse, at verses to rebirth—a solemn affection: those beige balloons; that mahogany kettle; our teas by one cube of ice: if fled a serpent, he’d meet a lion, flipping through desert-storms; while reaching deaths, at best a ghost, imparting a sacred whisper; where mothers flourish, as depicted in scriptures, by force a locomotive; to sing of treasures, at paradise a voice, while flung into salvation. I’ll share a secret, as born through rivers, adrift a beige star: We strike emotion, to pass a spirit, while managing our fires; so more to flying, while reaping rewards, at terrors to hate us.  

(At moments we realize this mixture of torments seated at tables offended by mirrors). 

Gripping Father’s Name

Its brutal reigns, that deep appeasement, at detriments a warrior: that peaceful cry; that humble agony; those trillions of demons—as mortal thoughts, or immortal wings, while seated closures: that tiny vex, as perceived a giant, while wrapped in transference: that blatant mother; that far cry; those mystics as monks—or secluded nuns, running through Carmel, headed for Carmelites; to dance at prides, leering at reflections, abused those days of births; where shadows fall, that backwards self, his eyes to spines: aloof and hectic; bright and dead; at terrors for sycophants—that rapid fire, as clutching guts, to awaken screaming; or honors that kef, this sightless savant, an idiot at tortures his face; where dreams appear, scribbled in ink—that spontaneity, as followed with structure, at curses this field of lexicons: those cryptic moons; that into us; those psychs as only others; that mystic sung, those overs clever, this ache by lance a river. We expand distance, realized in closeness, our purpose a bit picky; to caution completeness, to absorb a failing hunch, to want by glance an immortal woman: if sought his soul, that distinct oneness, by lagoons flooded with wretchedness—as melancholia, that gentle nudge—our tribal affairs. I’m seeing daughters, this realm of warfare—our women clawing through sky-pits; to sing his song, as eclectic pressures, without liberties that fallen grace: as pictured gateways; or chiming fires; such immutable tactics; to fly at increments, a petal on a windowpane, a broker as mother—afforded dalliance, or more a sword, while at sexy like flurries—that sun as struck, our stars as segue, afoul a thought peering at monsters. We course this way, at dangers to science, tingling by chase that storm: that daily war; that doting deception; those invisible cries; where God heard, that mountain wailing, by bodes that amazing spirit; to gentle a cause, those psychs at nearness, us mystics at gardens: if lived a soul, at sexy with power, as fully something foreign; to seduce a song, by glens a meadow, a bit too stolid that disguise; as eyes sung, cleaving to metals, while naked a goddess. I dreamt this way, at wars this way, afforded this sinister soul; where love is gray, as love is life, while purely our contradiction; to float by wings, as such debris, while blown to winds; that inner courage, to grip for sinning, while living this despicable comfort. I’m botching prose, at woes a feeling, that addictive personality—while seeking jewels, alive but gone, at horses to gallop by forces—as mother sewed, this infant grave, afforded one voice to swim; that mental praxis; that river’s mystic; those times I fell gripping father’s name.

Terrestrial Mystics

At last, an echo—contorted by visions, consulted by hearts; that pronged violin, that screaming cello, our driven skins; while torn a curse, at silent winds, our chimes mental phantoms—that laughing cure, as bore his mind, accustomed to violent wails; as shadowed a ghost, at purpose a song, this cadent woman while groaning: that deep softness, fueled by anger, that name betraying its origin; of course, a sin, by neglected windmills, as sought a quixotic journey: that beige dream, that gray horizon, our fires stressing abilities—as accordion monsters, or fluting leviathans, at courage to embrace demonic jeers. We’ve cried death, amazed with churches, this man by prisons our tortures; as brains ache, those stems to weeds, while our harvest if thriving; that gravid drumbeat, at deep affections, while curled in pretzels: that mahogany lute, our daughter’s piano, our mothers to perish harshly: that wayward child; that intolerant soul; our rivers dry those dying ducks; to reach by joy, this tiny pill, as our countenances become liquids; while churned a song, at such profundity, scraping as killing that silent innocence; this gurney of souls, while abreast five spirits, as added his soul: those sacred fires, at unison a storm, where yogis point to mirrors; of course, to communion, that unsung piccolo, those vibrant soulquakes: to shivers our dice, that purring kitten, those gleeful puppies; while mother churns, as father writhes, our distinctions distorted with rhymes: that lambent ache, as sensing such presence, while at curses to extinguish reflections. We trek a canyon, as fragrance by caves, our memories jogged by science; to consort with omens, as chilled his brains, a pentagram as darkness; to see for cultures, our ubiquitous crimes, seasoned with failing salts; that inner adventure, as chimed a legacy, our purposes a bit contorted—while whales advance, addicted to shorelines, as stuck to crosses that endless sensation; at tears, to witness travesty, that breathless symbol; while organs wail, our arias by mirrors, our cadenzas by liquor; as romanced a thought, peering at galaxies, our homes that familiar torch; as bleeding boulders or sky-fire rain, accustomed to mourning—at beauty a grotto, that snail mocking, by reach that life to incarnate—as flying through dregs, to pause through fields, plucking a peach in bloom: as neural enchantment; or sublime heart-spikes; at flux to ensoul a swan; while felt a soul, that crescent fantast, by war an adversary of time.      

   

Such as whirlwinds, a starlit at moons, pictured as teal-blue pirates; that song we wrung, that allusion bleeding, our minds bewitched—as channeled forever, as privileged our souls, ahead by curses our blindfolds; to maestro an orchestra, afflux a cauldron, to collapse a nightmare; that jasper rose, that jasmine diamond, our crises affecting our dispositions; where origin etches, as reminded of ghettoes, this thing we were pleased to construct: that terrible lightning, as wrung our fortunes, our threads knitted to something underground: those dazzling crystals; those impish ghosts; our lore as souls abandoned—where mothers sung, of sacred silence, at pace a group of believers; to sense for magic, that inner ability, while tugging for wealth that warrior’s lights.

We’re bleeding Agnes, that tragic oracle, at potions by airborne waves; while caved as villains, our rags to filth, our souls to holiness: if chorused our lives, this cryptic spell, aloof to souls fleeing our songs; as taught adventures, married to motion, espoused to darkness; that gothic fuel, that tragic art, that beautiful wedding; as sensing forever, this must to return, while at breath unconscious of breath; this axis of souls, at balance a comet, thrust into longevity; as torn to confess, this wretched expectancy, while eclipsed by something spectacular: that cultic soul; that gravid heart, those waves by earth as terrestrial mystics.