Salutations,
Love. I drift at times, at wars with self, as not to cause a complex; but life
is raw, this needs to ponder, this thing of cultures. It could be gentle, but
thoughts are havoc, this tour to transform; if but for love, this core at
humans, to see this evening face. We feel intensely, this pleasure of spirits,
where said intensity is often askew; if but for graces, our wintry hearts, at
coals for warming; that inner furnace, to course with time, at flights to wings
our souls. I love us thinking, where thoughts are pure, this ambivalent
sequence; where days are short, while nights are long, this inner person at
tears. I love a swan, to have lost a
friend, where that course was shocking; to arise a man, this vet by self, to
feel this roaming curse; at force to change, at hearts to pray, as to live this
theologian; but grays are near, where pain is law, as becoming
melancholic. We know for passions,
laughing through miseries, at wars to love others: We grow with practice, as to
love self, while to adore this jurisdiction; where love is painted, in perfect
strokes, as agaze by mosaic beauties: this feverish self, at woes to perish,
where life is for others.
I speak for self, this want for souls, to see
it as reality: these jinn of cultures; this vest of credenzas; those letters we
read in silence; to see your soul, afloat our horizon, as sophisticated wisdom;
or more this split, as defined dearly, to realize those talents; to have a
word, for one distressed, without losing a sense of self; but this for
thoughts, to love is grand, while to hate is torture; as it ruins self, that
haggard countenance, those brooding evils; where beauty is saddening, as arts
are worthless, while prose is merely falderal; nevertheless, I see a genius,
disguised as spirit, while forming into a glorious force: that Cajun spin; that
jet to Israel; this pleasure in London; as crossed through wits—a Spanish
sister, to meet by design that courage; if but to sing—this Italian purse,
floating through grays: that inner Ferrari; that mental Porsche; that African
songbird; where life is hearts, imbued through minds, at souls through
passions. It’s more to thoughts, such as
intensity, to move through cultures; to blend as love, while at course a soul,
to realize those hearts of men; nonetheless, we adore for goodness, as oblivious that chamber, to extend by law firm
compassion; where grays appear, but not for love, this digging into pits; if
but for arts, this laugh for some, while others, reality; so float a sea, as
informed dearly, where love is a frontal pose.
