It’s
sad and sombre, this actual favor, done in designs; my inspiration, so shadowed
a scream, this person bursting into freedoms: as dying he lives, as living he
dies, a man with issues—this fervent force, to notice by glance, our mothers by
other women—as sung a favor, why seeming irregular, that palm of sorrows—those
liquid secrets, that tragic lose, our curses as gems. I thought for love, that
grand delusion, infused by actual illusions—to piece parts, at arts his deaths,
as cadence his joys—as flavored insanity, that broken psychology, to realize
those shattered facts—by chance a guidepost, as inner participation, while
captured those fading realities—where mother sings, by melancholia, those
centuries at addictions—while hating self, abandoned to turmoil, puffing by
chance to escape: it consumed breath; it stationed miseries; we fell by luck to
treasures; as born to breathe, inhaling father, where hell was plain obvious:
that crash of souls, as clashing with darkness, while embracing that face of
ignorance. I felt a wound, to seek a suture, as deranged that inner solace. We
culture nonsense, where earth is dungeons, while our mirrors lie. I sought a
dream, as stuck in parts, repeating similar themes—that piano’s motif, as
chanced this legacy, by confusion our mothers’ judgments; unto strife as sanity
or mischief as normality longing this place where souls perish: those haunted
houses, condemned to terrors, that vestibule of faces—while falling for rising,
afforded that similar kiss: to capture early, this voice of reason, while parents design those
mental columns—that mantel of screams, this senseless diatribe, as occasioned
to float dreams—that space by rage, as channeled to harness that place of
secrets: those psychs to psyches; that casual stream; as undone seeking a
captured thread; as sung by favors, that minimum delivery, as to jog a
frequency—at points, acacia, or oaken madness, sitting while carving
infatuations: that beige treasure; those pagan voices; as permeating life—where
simplicity becomes profound, as aiding through deaths—that tendency to fly, as
hoped a scream, while furious to souls. We’ve cried Bhakti, sentenced to
feelings, as overwhelmed by emotions—while seeking clarity that seasoned soul,
where patience becomes torments. (I love this image, our parted mothers, as
craved such clarity; while denied a voice, as chasing smoke, this smaze by
arts; to have countenance, as falling by fires—so vicious a touch; unto
violence, sectioned as demented—so kind a living room diner: this outer
mystery; that candent favor; to die by lights our souls; as giving realness, to
such as seeds, while crawling into crevices); that practiced sacrifice; that
pragmatic approach; our fantasies to loyalties—as real that life, controlled
through deception, as every piece is pushed too far; where souls flourish, as
cracked a nerve, thrusting through dimensions: that inner sound; that dying
cry; our souls at arts; where mother is perfect, seated at glory, effused by
angular expectations.
