It’s
generational, Love; this feeling of downward, to search out illumination. For
some—it’s an innocent rain, free of guilt; while others are heavy, for gravel
the scars, running from mirrors; but more to uncaused pain, to build an oasis,
to structure viable forces. We feel a falling, to struggle intuition, strumming
a heartstring. There’s a mind to nurture, the ecstasy of being, to shift
depression; where a spell is shattered, to unveil self. It’s a spent condition,
to feel it in passing, a dark design; or more a treasure, to see humanity, a
mandolin to a soul; but more the struggle, a soul to print, peering at
sunlight; where wounds are static, to inflict a heartbeat, to feature a mantra.
This is rain, a touch of anxiety, to listen for nightingales. Many are wrapped
deeply—this bed of lesions—this inmost dimension; to wrestle for breath, to
swivet and stumble, to groom for families; where an inrush swells—to nourish a
soul, a hidden panacea. It’s a twofold nature, to dream the voltage, to live
and dance and sculpt a symbol; but more this touch, as heavy as plums, to
flicker through a young soul; where the feeling is taboo, to chime and
smile—before veiled eyes. Oh the youth of this rain, a temblor motif, to
pressure self to splendor; where parents live it, to see it not, to lean upon
bias moments. The ember sparks—with much appeal, a sensitive stream; where much
invested, gives for insight, a lifetime of wrestling. There’s a den of roses, a
set of rosaries, and a vase for aesthetics. There’s a crystal, a candle, and
classical music. Moves come with effort—for sullen the moment—until the wheels
turn; this is quite ubiquitous, to reach for scenery, to braid a thought; where
rain trickles, into a streaming river, to polish an inward mirror; and this for
days, to awaken in grays, to search for violet visions.
