by pleasurous or
disastrous or anxious — those memories so acute where it would hurt. such
cryptic scars as floating thrown gravity, that falling feeling. so many those
inkblots as to imagine sin where one enters your space. I sense some as having
excellence so equipped for this world. by beleaguered angst or love so gentle
where south is so religious. too false in me where its reality in me while I
train to find the feeling in me. beige grass or fading roofs or doors with
chipped paint. the way we hate ourselves those agonies carried where one
asserts his holiness. by glamor those nights, by full infatuation, as to adore
like winning, so isolated from reality. (suddenly offbeat suddenly a myth or
suddenly forgotten: our terror our fears while begging one with no respect for
us.) indeed, it shifts but it comes back while needing some atypical
correlation: by element it flies by psyche she lives by therapist as dynasty; by
caseworker with life or by daughter with anguish — those frets in science those
old comrades or so musical our symbols hurt. a need for closure, it abides in
humans, where one says, “I’m not at peace with lose-ends.” to watch as
misunderstood, or to find understanding by something feeling insufferable:
those angering cages those adamant insistencies where control seems so
important to us; a man too tall a life with disappointments or murmurous
discomforts — a chimney by lungs a deep turquoise reality or standards most are
indicting. flames inside, so much to accept essence where thought seems key to
serenity. so, a person clears debris, faces instabilities, as to strengthen
something inside the peaceful person. so aloof such literature where deep
knowledge, by default, becomes passive-indifference, or conscience necessities.
as abandoned to sky-hopes while a person frets life, where making happiness
becomes such contempt. if but to unfeel the rising torrent or so unscheduled
for the final religion where a man stands at his pulpit.
