There
are hallways leading to extensions where a soul must love.
It
kills to loosen you, in times of cages, our splayed mentalities; if but to love
you, if but to care you, while so close tolerance becomes unbearable; to die in
you, to hover over hells by you, while haven safe in miseries. So concerned to
exist or so baffled at banisters so cautious or too far in; but a man at days
or a spirit at war while I fathom this plight; so patient with you, but a
famish fool for you, sitting silently.
By no greater embarrassment—than a
man claiming ecstasies—where a woman gave solace; at torture our guts, to
imagine experience, or to know it was shared; to then into a nightmare, a most
marvelous creature, while hypocrisy looms in ancient arcs. Those feelers lacing
this gut-damaged fire insofar as a man might in hopes while drowning; such
human contention, to grip life-vests, in a situation where she wants to feel
used; our blatant bridges, our feral flames, to have loved like one desiring
rescue.
So much hell to exist or so little
heaven by choices as one so healed by treachery.
Those sickly decisions those fair
blue dungeons at pearl ivory meadows.
Remand
us to those feelings or incarcerate us in pure emotion where
reality is so unapparent; as dying creatures so livid our curse to hear warning
signs pushing us forward; in deeper violence this essence against self to
realize trenchant self-compromise; by bullet or prayer by reality or fantasy to
announce to self, something too peculiar; our tender terrors our treacherous
tumbling but a member of madness; where many proclaim this uncut evenness while
so in we reassess our pillars; as dying souls cemented in chaos but too
confused to capture freedom.
Truths are disturbing to understand
the cycle while repeating those habits.
It
was adoringly pains, so cuffed to ideals, where determination becomes
opposition; our physic hearts our deeper appropriations while a man might grip
God while negotiating with something dark; as livid souls or languishing softly
to penetrate such unearthed truths: one would delude for you, even gnaw
illusion for you, while proud to drag dirt by you; this muddy millpond those
marshy havens where two people appear so dignified; such old literature,
looking strongly—at something purely unorthodox.
Too much to keep you but
to defeatist to let go while similar hells permeate those corridors. Our vacant
assessments at something sadly terrific so inclined to perish those dreams;
where souls wane while waxing silently to become tenacity.
It seems unkosher this
terrible light while one loses something wholesome. But devastated by
friendship in a familiar world while either here or there.
