I
try to, I promise I do; but colors move me, keen to behavior.
I
speak of trust, opalescent in design, a vehicle of thoughts.
Strings
are strummed, streaming through valleys, afraid to
latch
on. Such affliction: to touch pain, and withdraw. I
fare
better in analysis; but what of love, the grandest
mystery,
what of love? Love is often too complicated, where
sublime
tension, ruptures a nerve. Instead, we often fare
better
without love, found in reason. I see it, but need love,
closely
unable to trust, despite a dynamic. Such a hindrance,
staring
for inconsistencies, found in cosmic vibrations.
Induce
a technique, centered in science, where love is
material.
I ask, and ask not, afraid of such a proposition; but
love
is more than fable, ever to complicate matters, where a
kiss
becomes more than gesture. A question becomes,
“Why
us?” Where an answer becomes, “Compatibility?” So
why
to mistrust, proving self time and again, a forced
ritual?
It’s founded in fear of behavior, and inconsistencies.
