Swirls of sunrise scatter about on misty sunrises, over a shabby carpet, laid across my uncertainties. My uncertainties are mistaken to a point beyond them; the garlands of my wrath are in drought. My soul lies sharply upon a blue-grey sky, silhouetted by the images of its unbroken shadow. The darkness sweeps upon and upwards, to the limits of a hazy sky in pain. The scent is skeptical, the crotchets notched upon their beats play in Italian tunes. There is a low sound, a silent reminder to the sweep of wind and the scent of cinnamon, perched upon a paltry Waltz.
I am sweetened like sugar, carved upon like a sculpture. My letters are vivid to the undefined, my volumes quaking. Within the path is for there’s what to pardon, like the lustre of my soul, the unspiritted sound.
By the road of a journey stands, like a road outstretched, with the words spoken. Words are spoken like sweet roses, forgotten, yet it’s nothing to sleep over, nothing like a street strangled between the narrow trees of shattered sorrow. Happiness is an object of insane beauty, like a river outstretched, not ever reaching the sea. There it stands, when the sea is glamour, and each wave perhaps a scarlet thought.
The trances of Hollywood are divine. Unhappiness is cruel to my emeralds. Like my sarcastic salute. The sparrow sings, with colorful paper cones and confetti. Hollywood stars dream and dance. I have a world to live, a world to show my sultry sass. That world is unlit yet, by the mourning stars. Like a piece of glamour greased with the subtle gravity of unheard grief. Yet the grief is fake, grounded like groundnuts.
Where lies the rotten fire is a story deformed. Where cascades fall over drenched dreams smiling, lies the swiftness of beat, the sweet smell of lavenders. The scorn of the crackle is visible to none, but audible to most. Like the pattern of my drumbeat unheard, the lost room of my song. I am drenched.0
Impulses are strong; catechisms are laid out across the yards of my impaired beauty. I am dusted, that’s all I am. I am dusted along the dark deep side of life, the swing of Italian beat, the slow-beat Jazz. I am on a carousel of beauty not insane, of unrealistic depression. My laughter sounds good; the whistles of my mouth high pitched. I am like a tangled string, knotted only at times. Yet I do not drift, for I am tangled, may be knotted, yet tangled onto lurid tales of love, crimson catechisms as my summer houses, as I dream. Yet those impulses shall not last, with their old loveless sound, their fake glamour, for I am bound. Those shall be the days of velvet, roses and wine on my summer mind.
Wild opera is sang from the bottom of one’s soprano. It must be shaped like a shout, a laugh, the cry of a bird. So must I. So must my song. The glamour of mine isn’t loved, for it exists, but it doesn’t. As simple as they say. As beautiful is their barbed song, there soprano. And mine, and it’s sound.