We Become Human

We consider facts, these proofs we touch, even particles of mind-waves; where illusions perish, if so be this love, this essence cleaving to reality; but drift afar, this fantastic mind, seeping into vague gestures; as more a journey, this core entertainment, a bit too cruel for axis. It shouldn’t be life, this act for fools, while uttering a silent contract: that inner passion, clashing as to rise, ignoring something precious; to fall forever, this needed union, as judged through cautious antics. We see patterns, this analytical intrusion, as both pleasure and burden; to live as we dwell, confused at parts, a fan generating warm winds; where either love or darkness, this darkness of love, permeates personas. I ramble surely, unless to peer closely—a scholar and her pen; this partial thing, while to notice nuance—this beautiful catastrophe: when pulled by purities; or hassled by negligence; this realization. We’re dealing with humans, with deep emotions, a bit too personal for souls. (I’ve tapped upon something: I’ll try to explain). Some are geared for love; that profound intimacy; where words produce orgasms. I wandered by mistake, to this place of virtue, a bit too intimidated; this challenge of souls, to enter into contracts, prepared to die with love: where sex is secondary; albeit, primary; an extension of such intimacy: to know this person; or to feel this person; where two manage as lights; this dark sickness, painted as glorious, as to encounter every gesture. It can’t be exhausted—that need for friendship—something a bit deeper than reflection: where pixels forge pictures; or pictures forge reality; this thing slanting with love; while love reaches, beyond mere glances—the two as one with child; or less a song, but more this music, as an orchestra of symbols. We can’t intrude; it’s not a living option; or less a proposition; whereto, is silence, this inner craving, to sing with bluebirds such magic.  I sighted love, hiking through transmitters, buried in mysticism; as speaking in tongues, some partial language, this piecemeal agenda; as ravished by souls, to see why love lives, hoping their diamonds are outcomes: this vague enchant; where defenses are high; while indeed we court this magic; that faraway dream, while silenced through arts, as seeking something immortal. We’re partly human, addressed as mere mortals—where violins stress such divinity; to awaken essence, this esoteric rhythm, where ethereal love is present. I admire passion, speaking as bypasser, a man too involved with traumas; as seeing chimes, courting winds, our immortal glance.