I
live sin here, even unbeknownst to me, attempting to disappear here.
Our
ends into messages. Our flying cut short. Or confounded by privileged problems.
Life is by measures or
escapades at something we raffle to explain; our dice are dragon-faced our
tales are congested as we wrestle phantoms.
A man released his snake
it bit a passerby the man had to forfeit his possession; such rare insight
while we need until we don’t where truest infinity is a construction project;
if but to see sin, if but to have an affection for it, in soul or gut if but to
uproot it; we see something unclear, we need to define sin, if only to say it
is a walking away from; as something good or something complete or we call it, utter
nonsense.
We lose by language, but
ethics are a vague enterprise, and morals seem damning; if you adore it, you
treasure it, where nothing is accomplished without deliberate thought; nor do
we contemn as tyrants or associate with something that isn’t ready; at pure
passion, or pure selfishness, or something close to altruism.
I
live sin there, into those spaces, while running with a mask on. I’ve seen a
bit much while laughing and noticed where certain laughter is a warning sign. I
have kept eye-contact—without moving a muscle—and still, those evaluators are
not convinced. (It is this need, where humans are concerned, that once we
deviate, it is like hell to reclaim a straight line.)
We
need people to condemn, it’s a human instinct, for ours has become this private
crucible.
The
meadows those flowing winds those brooks or creeks or digestion; to presume
alienation or to box a man in where one perpetuates through enactments in order
to weaken a variable; or plain dislike even pure disgusts insomuch as denying
resentments; our courage-zones, our needs for something still innocent or this
man becoming too distant to convince. (Such warlike perception, to need a
certain feeling, as identified by certain consciousness; else, pure
distraction, realizing the judged is judging, and the evaluator has much to
hide.)
It shouldn’t matter much,
especially, for a perfect person, while aligned with something delusional; or a
careful soul, an unbelievable soul, where right actions are paramount.
But I live sin here—this inscrutable
mandate—while in likeness it seems impossible to avoid; as a flying agent or a
caged agent or an independent agency.
