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.