Is it possible to fall in love with probabilities,
To fall in love with a soul that’s a maybe,
To fall in love with intangible realities.
Then why is it that I have fallen
For the just barely.
Keep resonating inside
Archaic echoes of concentric conceptions
Of discomforting dazes in ecstasies
Where eyes of a deranged criminal cackled
Then cracked in crippling dins of
Dined vehement emanations.
Integrations of cyclical motions
Deduced as fragments of
With her nonexistent voice,
Within exceeded pain thresholds
In jolts of crumbling lulls.
Convecting inside captivating
Dapples reflected on rivulet dreams
Hypnotically undulating within
Devouring dissonant flections
In swarms they rush:
Imaginal cyclic offenses.
How did they get in?
But they create loamy ideas,
To complimentary wineries.
Placing a burgundy glass
Plotting a massacre:
Wine-logged fruit flies
Stick to clinking walls.
They’d read fine lined movements,
They’d hear thoughtless pitches,
They’d dissect words and phrases,
While I desperately tried
To keep them hidden,
While freed exposures
Were covertly covered
Up by explanations.
They’d find ways
To play viola variations
Of indifferent violations
In violent slashing motions
In muted flesh tones
Of proprietorial renderings.
In dreary wires
Across this mire
Outdated posters posted on window panes
Displays of colours faded from ultra violet rays.
Advertisements solely leaving traces of azure hues
Where the instances of human comprehensive abilities
Only seem to reside in the field of colour theory; the key
Necessary to unlock its otherwise mysterious coloured origins.
Posters stored in tubular cases in order to preserve
Printed colors of origination, discolored by drifting
Felt measurements in realities of human ingenuity.
Entendre’s in retarding phrases
Of anger infused words
Instilled by distilled
Of slim escape
From minuscule taunting
In boomerang cycles
Of an all too familiar