Wednesday, June 28, 2017

By Necessities

Our imperative woes, as exigent wings, fueled by flaming desires…while so detached, at compassion by powers, to outlive our swan-song: our mystical cries, as warm by shivering clutch, wherefore, a method uneasy: that cold profession, as heated by fevers, pulling for grinding our emotions; to favor life, as lived a soul, too powerful for fainted hearts. Such cautious waves, to furnace through communion, at tares to utter our teething souls—as lost to fortune, or torn to misery, at purpose our immortal sentence…to chase by capture, as so much to fire, but leery that voice probing our futures: that wealth of transmitters; those sheer metamorphoses; that particular element befuddling our caves—our minds as plural, each assigned a brain, by cryptic design such reach: our pensive songbird; our undone fates; our psychological billows: this line he hawks, for hell stored a season, where he miscalculated kismet: that frantic fairytale; those recent eyes; such fulgent hindsight—as mother lives, but dying softly, as harsh as falling impacts: that infant song, as tossing and rolling, our limpid screams…to sort by music, that question by wavelength, while devoured by furnace-tension: our faucet dreams; our kettle rings; our whistling becoming boisterous…to know by sureness, this strength of rareness, while ever by fiery blueprints: that yogic ark; that flurry of souls; our sundry dispositions…to watch us drift, seated at stratagems, a series of connected goals: that touch of dying, enflamed by sadness, at capture this furry of electricity…as voicing concerns, to have lost that person, by contact our withheld personas. (We wince when frightened, dance when ecstatic, and sit when meditated: our curses blessed; while defining too much; at heart to latch upon something inscrutable: (as I wonder by nature, that genius brain, as to what extent?): those harsh winnings, as losing naivety, and such a prize by cultures: that lure by daylight; that mystic come nightfall; such intentions by midday…our sodden cries; our mental marrow; our fire to winds).      


I’d Save The Reader Years

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