It’s
lighthearted banter, to unravel truths, that concern the keen;
and
more the soul, to whisper and wink, a wrinkled gesture.
I
know more the sincere—to greet but a few—to skip the
discomfort.
We never heard this thing, rooted in purities, to
picture
standoffish. We speak hypotheticals, laced in realities—a
portrait
response; but more to abstracts, reading through
journals,
to speak in theoretics. We rarely voice it, as alive as
mentors—a
shadowed language. It’s more the repercussions,
to
cherish feelings, to speak it in riddles; for this is life, to honor
intelligence,
to take the hem. I saw it, to know it—this beige
mirage;
and more for there—the in-betweens—a semi-hostage; to
drift
through portals, to do it correctly, to wrestle a threshold.
The
pinch registers at a seven—and ever this rain; but art for calm,
to
feel addictions, to live it through words.
If
it’s daily—the spark of this thing—it speaks to grayness.
I
tussle with this—this realization—for why escape it; or
moreover,—the
mind is law—petitioned by souls; where
conscience
is clear, where a heart is pressured, to critique itself;
for
this is purity—to paint the contrast, searching for
balance—where
the soul is flaming.
There’s
great intensity, surging through core desires, to often
challenge
blankness; to look upon a crowd, and witness veils,
or
much for needed—where colors are found, stationed in
souls,
glazed in existential sadness; to churn a heartbeat, to
reach for action, and
often to court moments.
