It’s
mediocre—as to rebuke justice, as to hope for peace; where she never smiles, or
at least it’s rare, this woman of a hundred faces. We’re running thin, aboard a
vessel, where gestures are peeking. It was never poker, but sheer the flame, as
to witness a breakthrough. I’m not impressed, as one for silence, as one for
vocals; to have a dream, where therapy is life, as afflicted upon self; to grow
in fractions, this exponential charm, that invades silence. We’ve touched
concrete, this abstract fusion, to paint in 3D—this life of owls, as watching
the nights, to reappear come sunfall. I thought to love it, this ambivalent
feeling, as one a bit for sickness; to play its worth, and morph into a giant, if only a gripping palm. It mustn’t be
life—this game of pieces, pushing and pulling rooks; as if to castle, to outwit
fate, to put it off but a moment. It couldn’t be real, this school of manners,
where most are pantomime; to have and fold, and fold with grace, this pace of
serpents.
Monday, June 13, 2016
Gestures & Wiles
PS.
The strength to withstand the winds; a spell as it effects/affects some creature. A sudden moment filled with absolute certainty, so wro...
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No amount of love compares to your kindness. And let dungeons be gentle—as we surf waves, embody hertz, too much to breathe. Feeling you...
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Irony. In the losing to find parts of one’s mirror. To see tragedy lives, such radiant joys in others. To decide by hands-on, wisdom is ...