We’re
feeling eerie; some type of emotion, relying on inner skills; to decode
futures, by mere those studies, where prophecy is leery: to fathom but fragments,
as to paint a portrait, while hearing those things as partial our inventory.
While
spiders pause, we become reflections, an arm concerned with resistance; this
place of values, if but our speech, else, for tortures that person’s character.
Love
becomes swift; that second at leisure; by disaster a life of tales; as souls
would live, by captive as souls, a tare torn and resentful.
I
can’t such hearts, amazed by hearts, to wonder intensively about hearts.
I
heard a feeling, as perfumed emotion, becoming a sore disposition. I thought
about tides, as clashing against bodies, and the power of water; that molded
earth, afire our sun, while chiding reflections. I imagine that mind: I imagine
those thoughts: I imagine such rain.
I’m found in souls, as lived our images, to perfect
with caution this pendulum: as downtrodden chaos, or elated minimalism,
reaching beyond our stature. I condition feelings, as deep to loss, by features
examined as one astray; those pots and kettles, that old cliché, and “Out the
mouths of babes”: as feeling pressures, while seated in silence, this nature
befuddled by shifts: those walled caves; that endless skydive; that ship built
upon tendentious ceilings; as craved our lives, prior to religion, this form as
dying through complications; as never such deaths, while built a new soul, such
resistance to old habits.
We
become through actions, while blocked by feelings, at standards to reach pure
convention; this place is passions, as deep consensus, afforded this begging to
garner agreements; as souls watch, becoming our nightmares, while we inquire
about rude behaviors: this space of pain, our souls as crushed, while receiving
our mortal natures.
I
ponder a soul, those majestic flights, to realize this Christ-like mind: that
winged heart, as connected to brains, by lifts this portal through time; where
love is rich, as pure altruism, this thing we unlikely suggest: to feel such
spirit, that rending investigation, as to determine that something’s askew: as
but a soul, a plaintiff at life, as resisting those forms of deathness—as cried
our aches, suspended at injustice, this crime superseding freedoms: that
courage our hearts, as relieved to exist, by Passion this immortal symbol:
those liquid eyes, as filled with contagion, if but to baptize this universe:
our names as scarves; our souls as drum-kits; our faith as indomitable or more
indelible.
