By Wells, Our Flailing Closure

Such conditions, this love of drooling(s), ever at tears: that beige grass; that inner hog, as such is greed; insomuch, as life, our cordial goodbyes, while fraught by hells: if purposed a life, as sung as vicious, enlove by victuals; this trope for thoughts, cleaving to friends, at terrors to abuse kindness; this wealth by chants, this inner mechanism, to thrust a series of hearts: that Cajun gremlin; that Ethiopian mystic; our Egyptian tenets; while pedals rev, as engines cry, our music our mother’s arcs—this furry, bent through caves, our women so afraid; for life is us, this mischief of silence, while unthreading pillowcases: that unhinged soul, flowing through travesties, our myths requiring sacrifices: if ever to sing, as one abandoned, this force by candent possessions: as hung a dream, our dangling carcasses, at wars with inner ambitions. I adore a swan, by torn genetics, to analyze a genius: that cyan grave, this turquoise tomb, our catacombs as brains: such flitting and grogged, at ponders for days, at wonders of this mystic charm; to imagine knowingness, as faith to explore, such smaze wrapped in information; as passing a thought, while plotting a river, our minds as passages; that dusty moon, that opus aria, the shophar of oil—as there expressed, such beauty to art, our poetics as thetic vices: our vizard appearances; our veils decoded; to meet by seconds interpretations. (It’s unbeknownst, this love about riches, as asearch for a woman’s acreage: that sanded trestle, as unappealing, at varnish a masterpiece; to chisel time, peering at beauty, aloof a touch by measurements; this weft feeling, as crossed through winds, but a glint of a sexual soul; to have for deaths, this woman’s ache, as flinty as professionalism—where mother’s laugh, as seeing clarity, as jagged spells vulnerable: that cagey virtue, as thrust with pain, at woes to trust; as, nonetheless, to cleave to love, as a lamb cleaves to shepherds: our perfect pleasures; our craving knowledge; our spotless fires—if only that grace, to love forever, while purposed to love beyond—that sketchy wisdom, as painted inexorably, while forsaking our longing dreams: our incumbent wails, at sails with grime, alive but a second of cursing; that gracious image, that siphoned lamp, our lanterns splayed against walls; while, thereupon, this sacred depiction, as suffused by bright colors: our fluorescent screams, peering at legacies, afforded a set of highlights. It comes with piety—such inner melancholy, our existential(s) bleeding—at search a cult, this mental archaic, to appear at sudden a flash; those other epiphanies, as torn discernments, while edging towards a woman’s cliff: as threshed succession, to have by chase, at tears to relinquish a captured dream; wherewith, are scars, for wanting return, a bit too rhapsodic about mystery; as ever a clause, as pursuing too far, while forsaking this internal realm—as ecstatic cries, or morbid inversion, at wretched displays—by claiming love, listening to subliminals, our sublime cadence; as never such sex; or never such feelings; while to let go as priests—where riches fade, as music is sullen, at treasures to redeem a Trixie soul: that dim cliff, as a bit too late, falling into a sacred womb: that inner yacht; that coquettish poetry; our chaste as pure motion—insofar, as life, our cadenza screaming, our sunflower writhing—in much disturbance, our reaming souls, at capture a growling stomach; but this is love, this colorful entity, our myrrh to scents aflame; this cryptic ark, so rare a tale, as hovering above loneliness: as, nevertheless, this eternal love, as sprung anew, to rejuvenate daily—as taking her cross, while threshed by demons, aloof to sinning greatly; by filthy rags, our nightingale, seated at bluebird orchestras: that centered love, our cracked vases, this estuary by arts explosive—where trumpets blast, as shattering glass, our music the four spirits: that church as law, our burnished prose, such as fleece depicting images: our rodent emotions; as nibbling infinity, while persistent to have life: if more a burden, accursed to breath, at love to hold this feeling; our orison flames, our garment promises, our unborn intimacy).