I
say it counts, to live it freely, aside for thorns. This is riddle, a can’t for
spoken, alive and breathless. Oh to carry it, semi-split, and quasi-torn. The
day was different, a subtle tare, a need for reach; for lights were dim, to
vacuum dreams, to emote joy. We pace
dilemmas, wrapped in tentacles, and scraping ceilings; where to live it—is
freely to die it, longing in solitude. I ponder eyes, the walk of tragedy, to
muster a smile. They call us curt, short and analytical; for life is dungeons
and algorithms and a host of worries; to see it breeding, and bubbling, and
dripping from a whetstone. The story is logos, a twofold meaning, to strike a
mental match; in which to see it, a string for pathos, and hebetated dearly.
Its contradiction, a tear to fall, and feeling through distance; and more to
feel, to near a wall, grieving and trekking.
I
say it counts, to die it freely, aside for joys. This is ethos, a must for
broken, rising through tests. Oh to bury it, this thought to fathom, to know
for indoors. The night is drifting, a shaping glare, a beige mirror. I’m
running for heart, in the midst of darkness, reaching for diamonds; and
woebegone, a falling contour, to search a moral. This is us, a risk for
thoughts, a compassion for souls; where cold is torn, and warm is certain, and found
is us.
