He
knew not the measure about which the
pleasure this seeming perfection; their love as shallow as concrete ponds, as
radical as lust, this thing easy to destroy. Why for sale about souls, to discredit justice, to tolerate tyranny? They found
a moment seeming as joy this story centered in allegories. They knew for
destruction; but oh so long the captive hearts, as to perish willingly; where
love flaunted her riches, a gift for each infraction, the terror of feeling
love; as to measure against backboards, its texture, knowing not the measure; as
hailing error, to learn through pain—this thing they didn’t deserve. They
tithed a thing abrasive, eroding the jut of souls, where hell was less
appealing; whereat are laws, the fortune of unsaid, to utter—I didn’t know!—as in—You didn’t tell me, the measure of love,
wherefore, I forfeit guilt. Oh the humanity, to feign as unspoken, those
very laws, that measure love! It wasn’t made vocal, those flagrant boundaries,
and thus, pain was the measure about
silence; in which a thing of passion, as want for control, this thing beyond
control; to let loose, this flight of terror, whereby—so easy to let go. We
rarely fathom, as those sane for goodness,
the measure of a stranger’s love; as fit for friendship, to utter it not, this
thing of leisure. Oh to finally fly, sorting through gray matter, buried in the
concaves of the soul; whereat is mercy, to confront this thing, measured by—I never knew! They trampled upon sores,
running from inner mirrors, as to compound the injustice; where neither would
listen, as to consider unfair, that measure of love given; as said about unfair: How treat me the way that I have treated you? By measure, they
yearned for multiple worlds, to depart as poisoned souls!
