I See Life

Be it wings, or fantastical flights, sewn into beautiful webs; therewith, was love, or dramatical arts, or silent symphonies; to hear dynasties, caged in sewers, such justice balanced as unforgiving: our training-wheels, sketched as angelic minds, a bit controversial—our lives…to remember yonic pre-births, or skylark observations, so hell-torn by graces that queen: if empty by life, or full by deaths, groveling for rapt’d or rapt’d for groveling: such delicate trauma, such cherub advice, by aches to hear it before it raptures—this inner page, this mental journey—our faces so delicate to chastity: our weekly lagoons, as mystic cave-prints, this pulling current distorted its waves—those far cries, as echoed hearts, to flux by souls our skies to sands.  (To relive times, unborn a sinner, this lit literature—to beckon minds, too steep to untie, too threaded to reknit; as fire invades, where trenches cascade, while born a silent fever—that rafter by pains, those beams looming, by wealth such poverty becomes extra-ordinary—this anti-thesis, or a flurry of blank cries, needing for living while living for needing—that miracle dream, so graphic a failure, by days to life driven as barely focused: this dreamy soul, in-but-lost to sub-consciousness, where arts slaughter rationalities: those visions to lives; this envisioned perfectness; those childlike advancements—as witnessed currents, so vocal a gesture, so righteous as souls—to feel clearances, or marvel internally, this treacherous overcast—as more but souls, feeling through thoughts, while it felt good to rule).  We exist acacias, as undergrowth studies, bending grammatical rules—as lured creatures, our wakeful anxieties, fueled by purpose our social contracts: to picture for worlds, such dramatic love, to know with time such character—as wishing our lives, our forests inheritance, this life so cultured by pieces…as rare as whispers, or ecstatic pauses, to lunge into life this ageless dream: that powerful mind, at moments to graces, our spines flooded with butterflies—as courage’d fantasies, through plaid existence, this pleading for rainbow horizons—as lives our minds, this mobile adventure, so close to everything it lives—while skating silence, our lambs as haunted by wolves, to find by instincts that others are wiser this life: therewith, this cultic mercy, as given to reflections, where aches portal nightmares.  (I dreamt of flowers, hours into surgery, too young to fully fathom our Nanny: this mafia woman, this arch by angels, this phantom with secrets; as lost to life, so rich with cadence, by transforming hopelessness into dreams.  I had a friend, our deep conversations, while filmed as demented: those craving thoughts, this otiose life, this village paved with psychs—as therapeutic, or capitalistic, to write a myriad of essays.  (I’d die a soul, if but a seed, where days are gloomy: those privy thoughts, those grand epiphanies, this woman at tears to loathe his being.  It felt for rain, to adore as unseen, dealing with negative receptors: that lavish style, those dice to brains, that electric seven as delivered: this Chevy Impala, those diamonds for forgiveness, this alienation by realizing this im-mountable mountain—where love is sweet, while captured in chains, to meet a person at restraints: that daily glory, our morning waffles, that edgy debate provoking lights: to come to justice, as sheer a vessel, delving into juvenescence—that creepy sign, those eerie lights, this fly a bit concerned with his face; where love is granted, as never but love, to come to aches as scraped from windshields).  I ache a life, as mere a gnat, straining to crawl that eye of a needle: this granny instinct, our fathers to mercy, this bent as suggested while floored to fires; therewith, a voice, as seething analyses, while prone to select a positive trait: this woman altering, while bending perceptions, at turns becoming human: this tender feeling, our palms to thunder, if but to relax while feeling ecstatic: this churning machinery, our mental mechanics, this feeling that science has missed it objectives.  [I’ll love for essence, as beating eternity, to flux with passion this last death: our liquid soot, our cranberry smaze, our days to relying while feeling smelted].