Such
by sadness, those plaid’d miracles, to breathe by arcs that tension: those
turquoise jeans; that time he cried; our essence by kef too dear for
resurrection—as loved by churches, that simple loyalty, our minds suffering
menticide; as churned our rivers, or burned our livers, falling to lusts our
brains to shiver—where hope would cry, in favor our torments, by meadows our
oaken songbird: that cryptic glare, as pursuing his soul, while too removed to
love: that shy echo, to chance by flames, our grip by deaths that crashing
ecstasy; to die as living, or prisons to minds, our cadence leaping fences;
that clashing temperament, or that dance of violence, to touch by chase our
tatted fragments: our moons to clouds; our sun to fires; our capture to courts:
that plea for years, as opposed to life, by far too evolved to venture; that
coarse island, as born to dreams, to awaken reaching for freedoms. I’m soon
that shattered mirror, at knees shredding carpet, that room by a thousand
psychs, as disgracing phantoms, while pointing by phoenix, to prance flicking a
thousand psychologies: that terrifying light; to see as more his life; that
woman those feelings that breach—as if we lied, some type of chameleons,
entrusted by roots coursing through cemeteries—if by that nose, dripping into
puddles, to handkerchief her soul. I’ve known your name, too busy ignoring
rain, as falling that session rifting through magic: that candent cry; that
torn by choice; our arrogance seeping into compassion: that hectic confidence;
that myth that lives; those theories failing our grasps; to apply textbook,
while to master affections, reaching as crawling to blend by fates—that captive
dungeon, dangling our heartbeats, two for driven screaming out by lungs. We’ve
met for beauty, abandoned to sights, greeting for failing that portrait through
grime: that inner childhood; those schizophrenics; our mothers a bit to racism:
if comes this flame, burning for churning, and turning through axes: that grave
flowered in pellets; those clouds flowered in violets; those eyes reaching into
turmoil; to do it for deaths, as flowered by lives, to come to gracing a
territory of phantoms; to touch his face, by mere rapture, to know by curses
this fire. I’m sipping majesty, a palm by walls, this woman too proud to
contend—where hell is coming, while Elijah breathes, seated at the King’s
stresses: if but a miracle, that gorgeous sight, by methods to forget that
gorgeous face; for webs are soaring, while women perish, to know by names this
immortal air; indeed, his death, leering at mirrors, to see that shift: that
treacherous woman, as a child for few, to win by deaths her graces: if but a
broom, as leaping forever, to come to hearts—that tremendous mindcave, those
treble terrors, our days at fixing our first twelve months: if but to fly, that
exquisite back, his teeth gnawing into flesh.
