There’s
something to it, Love; this adult life, spinning through consequences. I sweat
to ponder it—this life as a monk, forced to enter the city. The years multiply,
so be of comforts, to avoid the consequences. We live to taste death; and we
perish to taste life. It’s a grand sequence, cuddling puddles, peering through
binoculars; if only to see, from far the distance, the motives of breathing. We
want for love, to sail the seven seas, to lose before we acquire—this light
called love. We see for perils, to enter perils, alive for fleeting moments; to
die softly, as something gray, a flame stressing perils; to give compassion, to
understand lightly, the human condition; where something grows, this inner
warmth, to fathom deeply the burning heart; so build with grace, and pursue for
works, a blend building a fortress; where never is possible, this euphoric
grain, thrusting towards majesty. We often perish, at young the age, as jaded
as rattlers; to sting the closeness, to scorn the love, to stress evermore;
it’s a subtle prophecy, to see the same challenge, to carry abandonment; but
long we live, learning as apes, to remember a tender touch; to then appear, for
love was felt, to strive for justice; and oh the truth, to churn our minds,
longing for the good. The pressure
lives, storming through souls, this insidious maze; where thoughts appear, an
inner damnation, an inner contempt; to challenge peace, the skyward scar, the
stress of faith; but long is love, as roses blossom, to imbue the mind; to lean
upon gold, and find for lights, this reason to smile. It’s truly incumbent, the
waves and stars, to dig a solid root; to master joy, to do for self, to depend
on a solemn few.
