I dredge up pyramids, slowly at chase, to
pace this inner psychotic: those theories ablaze, this cave of men, our anxious
ambivalence—to love as sentenced, this deep abyss, as infrequent that innocent
luxury: those bars scraping, that inner me at terrors, this face too cold for
warm embraces. I left to drumbeats, this
kettle whistling, our treacheries to science: that glamorous poetess, those intricate facts, this
aphorism as kneeling its glory. I loved
as demented, to rent for clarity, as focused to collapse pleading its
mercy—where loses were tremendous, this inadequate adjective, planked for naked
leaping to matrimonies. I vexed a rival,
this spoken language, to cut celery dipped in honey: this frantic swan, as
seething this storm, at aches to appease something close: that livid mentality,
as dying to destroy, while angered concerning an inner channel: that broken
colour, this siren yelping, that goddess a dream too far to escape—as an inner
enchantress, this music we vetoed, this belle fleeing our mental halls: as
called to mercy, to intrepid our skies, this vex outwitting myriads: to that
feigned feeling, as cut a clarinet, while at tailors laughing its
torments. We practice feelings, staring
into mirrors, disguising our weaknesses: to wit a storm, as outflanking
alphabets, while one becomes a trenchant adversary: as nearing exile, as sudden
to rebirths, this metro-maniac. I saw a
turnstone, at flights with eagles, this sphinx alive by mere advancements: if but
to breaths, as yogic ice-minds, this mystic caravan; indeed, a riddle, as afar
a dream, such to ache while pleading distance: that antic core, this war of
roses, that icy hymn. It could to life,
but this is justice, this element refused by tyrants: as broken for whole or
whole for shattered, awake a curse and laughing heartily; this faint
extraction, where privacy bears demons, this trekking for paced to return. I ache those feelings, as jinn(s) ache limbo,
to seep into an unsuspecting vessel: those eerie tendencies, that facial
twitch, that empty room filled with presence—as lives insanity, as never a
confession, while psychs are privy to this phenomenon. I must for concrete, as-if-we-loved, to
contort as twisted fleeing for running—this vague absence, while seated in
cadence, to love at reach upon contact—as terrible advice, our passions at
rivers, to flush each stream with deliverance.
I love a person, to ache in emotion, while here, alive, as splayed upon
clouds: this vest shattered, his words mumbled, that powerful forgiveness as
alert to whiplash.
