It
swelters—Love this wavy
heat-storm at tears to stir it: our
casual heartsore; our elastic mores; this evermore love: to sense by
shifts such electric mindcaves at terrors to fathom reality—where science
flurries at horrors such glories mangled for flipping with dolphins. [We
become incipience, caged in conundrums, at wars to reflect perfection: such
achy brain-flights, sighted in seconds, while converse disappears: that
shadowed person, at stairs to harmony, where ladders become branches: our
cryptic touch by pure
elucidation our nighthawk visions:
that mental gardenia, pruned at passions, to morph by pure epiphanies—as torn
to chaos, this vetting of feelings, where a metal-rose becomes a pendant]. Anger is penchant—Love this pretzel of activity insofar, as ruining light-fixtures: that
ottoman prayer branch our booths to
brains those spaces as trespassed;
indeed, to courage, fumbling to speak, our internets fraught by meerkats. {We harvest lightning, our memories as
whales; our temperaments as near irksome: such dramatic fevers, as carried our
existence, our thoughts ghostly abodes}.
Its melodramatic, this inner soliloquy, staring at silence—that immortal
swan, as pure affection, too cold that favorite quilt; to test with time, this
village of insights, while at feelings near remorse: that course of passions,
those gifts returned, while churning in greatness: such cheetah speed; such
genet grace; such by law this passionate guidance—where mother watches, culling
out beauty, while debris wilts by application. [Our haunted houses, encased by
intentions—such by conviction a faucet; this fire of brains, this mind of
meetings, such impressions leaking—where otters frolic, where owls spin, while
disconcerted by nature—this fragile sturdiness, while seeping into menus, as
much for moreness our births. It shall become this knitted abrasion as triumphant beauty—while lingering
through threshing, our portals to vacuums, to invert becoming this human
sun]. I adore imageries; this
plethora of activities; our music created through symbols: as perfect
imperfection; that trite rhythm; where perception garners a sense of clarity:
by glorious birds, this mocking of arcs, our treacheries forgiven with graces:
this terrible passion, as our magical passion, pushed for purpose through
pleasure; while more to live, singing through vines, as tugged in depth an
immortal brain.
