These are not words
But an extrication of soul
An intrinsic resistance to extrinsic chaos
Or maybe intrinsic after all
What are words
Synapse to synapse
I am me
They encourage me to understand what I lack,
They force me to strengthen my core,
They influence me wanting to become better,
They tell me there is something I can strive for.
They are my frustrating frustrations,
They are my weaknesses and my flaws.
They compel me to open my eyes,
Ergo I can see vividly more.
I am in levels. Past levels. This deep, intrinsic wonderful lost, the lawlessness of its fascinating expenditure of excite. Pushing through the wild and feral snow-dusted plains and timber ridges. Like red-spotted dots breathing through the cylinders called the spine. This descends into a narrow channel of scantly clad greenish scenery in a time-soaked visionary wilderness of snow,
Our crab legs dancing down wiry purple highways, our heads could not even look backwards if we had wanted.
Furious, love-latitudes, stalking breaths thwacking fork-ended tongues into a pinkish knot buried into the first layer of organic membrane on this railway of miniature canals, showing. And their pride snuck into the elbows, shooting down each vertebrae as it stepped with great precision every ledge that the currency emphasized. The raw accumulation of stolen heart-beats rattling between the interstices of new fuel careering these red engines. Crashing with exquisite pleasure into one another.
— The End —