Analysis of Silent, Eerie Sounds & Comforts

ink trickling outside, music inside of brains, mini-monsters sit in abeyance.

many ruined souls, many more descended from the phoenix, much in the deaths are reluctant.

nevermore a deliberate error, like a wishing child, an adored stranger, for accidents are human, made into something concrete.

to wield a miracle, or weld an instrument, twigs and terrors and haunted dreams—the ghosts right afore you, aside a perception, seated as the chills speak to otherworldliness, seated in a friend, foe, or one having a time with us.

grackles may whine, rivers are for bathing, songbirds are accompanied by harps and flutes and cellos.

a poem is a country of primates, a ghostly mentality, always a byproduct of evolution. to be or not to be, this is the question of the poem.

i felt eeriness, a presence, I sat in stillness. it began to rise, make its appearance. i felt voltage shock, i thought of thee, the dialogues might ensue; just a Creole soul—it says so much—many are shredding us into what they would prefer. (How is it one is chastised for something that might come to pass?) it doesn’t seem fair.

like language translations, we never know until it is final, as it stands, each word is a mystery. for example, most read readily, without the second voice, this is not where it should be—the second voice, the second thought, should be asking—Is this as it appears?

sermon aside, the concrete is moist, the sands are damp, the cultures are making mixed children.

messages remain skewed. albeit, younger, we notice a precociousness. while most things are tilted, uneven, misleading.

many anxieties, more sakata anomalies, as eating interior, like locusts, the travesty is the assumption—the rule is the third analyses, the second inclination, the first feeling made self-conscious.

over there is an empire. it was neat and swift and it consumed thoughts and lingered for some years. in the punishment was the blessing. in cremation, both eat and puff our ashes.

the phobia of the woman—sweet, amorous detachment, at some point, we stop losing control—over self, anxiety, or seized like one in the haunt of it all. made to perish like wolves, or celebrated like zombies, in the pith of the matter, a few ghosts condemned by the very powers we might possess.

we meet with frustration, thwarted at times, successful at other points. What we tend to loathe—Is a smart creature!