I try by explanation, to elucidate this constant
flux, where a man can admire and admonish one soul; our psychotic rants, our
psychopathic traits, or a daughter I worry about; at movies such heat, at
helium so debated, to dig into fury; this whet language, or this one I mistaken’d,
or adoring by sights unseen; as but a few traits, to determine longevity, where
a man doesn’t care about capacity; this trenchant Swan, this deadly history,
where suffering has become so palpable; those engrained missiles this raging
pipe organ as demonstrated by silence; a man may drift, seasoned by
determination, where pushing has an opposite effect; but I try at explanation
so feudal and resentful while Love seems cherries and apricots; this trait in
some, while one is every feature, others are partly unavailable; this deep
ruins, for Love desires presence, while most of us are detached; that lack of
conscienceness, those antisocial attributes, or designing another man’s future;
nevertheless our reigns as creatures falling lightly where Love adored those
few days.
I must elucidate, this patient grimace, where I attempted
something by psychoses; this planet soul, threshed by earth, too romanticized
to retreat. But Love argued by silence, Love ignored possibility, and Love
never offered a caveat; as time would venture, a man set on rejection, running into
something by escapes; those brown crystals, this relatable body, while losing
something too woven in to believe; nonetheless this journey this pensive
journey while meeting Love in others; those familiar traits that particular
gait at gates and tunnels debating those keepers; as years would vanish, as
time would erupt, this dungeon kept on walking.
I try by explanation—this shiver to ponder where
agony appeared sweetly; as but a few traits to believe in kinship while Love
agonized to escape; or an addict’s temperament, needing that rush, as it must
dissipate; to imagine those rooms, to explore those dialed souls, while poets
die feeling connected; this thief of existence, once so ravishing, where sheer
beauty drove a man excitable; those marigold winters or those topaz assertions
where reality seemed just but unfair; a crazed person frightens receptivity
while a woman grips something stable; familial is but rain where one solicits and
man begins to speak softly; this inward vacuum, those precise windows, where Love
searched for something like eternity; but never for sacredness, and only for a
time, where similar behaviors are ever this location.
I must elucidate this chasm of intentions while she
is so close to Xanadu; our terrible frustrations, attempting to fathom others,
while fretting the forecast; or running from Love, while damaged by Love, where
that person is oblivious; (for it’s not a big deal, in this mind of excuses, it
has naught meaning); but here’s something curious in this dungeon of sparkles,
they would never tolerate what they give to others; this speaks to realization,
an admission of conscience, while one consciously ignores it; by this it
becomes dull where heinous acts are validated and remorse becomes something
accursed; those rooms mean nothing, until, one yearns for privileges, and then,
selling a quick dream means feeling good—despite the hurt it lingers.
I try by explanation to stipple a portrait but
those eyes are filled with particles; becoming something known and angered they
tell lies while feeling deeply convicted; those dreams of woman-ness, or this
demand as man-ness, while unwilling to part with other joys—in exchange for
something more fulfilling; it’s a type of behavior, it’s a typical trait, while
we fear that certain characteristics, in this specific design, are unavoidable.
