…our
lives with forgiveness, such unreasoned nectar, such hectic edifices: to
imagine our souls, mental mutilation, while cleaving to laws: such rationed retrieval,
to relocate, this soft singing salvation: alike to energies, fueled for our
essence, so forgiven, so with discomfort…. Those particles inside, our mental
physics, our fire our strength our resurrection. To lose spatial eyes, or to
redeem an inclination, needing to feel those adolescent intensities. As crucial
beings, or metaphysical receptors, at guts so feral a nightmare. But Love is
agony, and Love is sweetness, while mirrors report our interior impressions.
This space in there, this diary in there, while souls are rummaging in there.
(Those imaginary rites, occasioned to adore essence, where life turned into
vicious binoculars. Our minds seething seconds. Our bodies with hives. As
creatures so addicted to bodies). Moreover, ontological infatuation, as blind
as captivation, where interior makings knit a monument: such cadence gazes,
prepared to open existence, as given our souls—to pure inhibitions, listening
to dragons, so galvanized to hit those targets.
There
was excitement. Our midmorning inclusions. An air socket by hearts. / Pure
intensity—our communal greeting—so involved with messages; where Love would
smile, so gentle our ascension, at candent transcension; esoteric advice, red
moon environments, so deep into our lessons; as seated quietly, winds swooshing
papers, our pencils at concrete—those tortured guts, attempting to decode
abstracts, so evolved becoming awkward; sensing determination, absolved in
mechanics, by something requiring our sensational apparatus. Those cute
winters, transitioning soulfully, re-sketching an old sentiment.
Oh’
Darling Mystery, our minds with invention, our intellects so entwined…
…with
enwoven harps, albeit, a dying lamp, so provoked to rescue life; our souls
galloping, our realities darkened, while Love can’t resist something
clandestine; but fever rushes, days are faint, and adolescence has coughed its
ghost; such terrible selfish creatures, so involved in ourselves, while
altruism seems impossible; but fair matter by hearts, leaping into candescence,
our numbers seeming so lucky…
…if
mind interrupted, we’d ignore essence, our passion so murky.
I
want for love—something pure with rules—or something kleptic and unforgiving. /
Our manic nights, parading in ambition, laughing this excitement. / Giddy with
emotion. Or sour about realities. So cured by each other. / But it becomes
much—as not more than presence—then profanity ensues. / While humans are
machines. We need something unrelenting. Our favored anxieties. Our familiar
angst. At poles and totems and talismans. / Our creature mentalities. Evolved
for closure. At such excellence this craving. / Into cadence. Eloping with
winds. A swift gust our glory. / To unlock statuesque. That feminine luxury.
While consumed by polite gestures. / This half portrait. This partial realism.
While overt everything would destroy sensitivities.
