If but
rebirth, if but mental satellites, if but a dearer legacy.
We would
live vacantly. There was death and dishonor. But a child is inner seas, or deeper
legacies, while a man might come to loathe existence.
I disappear
into her visions; to know for discomfort or to realize dissention while a
daughter must evade circumstances; this gentle, distant creature—this metaphysical
element, where residue seems so graphic. But Love is a machine; and Love is
watching; where I fear destiny is failing us.
This
lot for pressures. This blade of grass. While a daughter might ask: Are the
days colder to us?” And a father might prevaricate until a daughter asks: “Are
we unstructured?”
As to
adore the Angel—or vigil closer—to need an eraser. Those reversible eyes. Those
social caricatures. Or pantomime mannikins whispering into winds. But Love is
science, or Love is unkempt feelings. Where mythos is unreal and logos
is held hostage and pathos rules our decisions. If but to watch but distantly.
If but to intervene with persuasion. While many people are not concerned with
right actions; but more with receiving carte blanch; this inescapable
force—our miracle essence, where partial participation is a plague.
It becomes
universal decadence: I must own others in order to pretend something by love. This
refrigerator, or this faucet leak, or hours with unbelievable silence; but Love
is agile, and Love is temperamental, and Love has some questionable habits. If but
to adore unsighted! This human miniature—as mother might smile—as to give no
less than her facts.
The child is a
young lady, faced by the faceless, while cities seem so pleasing; such homespun
advice, while disapproving of guidance, while becoming something stern; this
map of instrumental articles, or this chapter in sexuality, or this need for contraceptives;
for pain is eternal, to happen upon a STD, one that never strays far from home;
indeed, so light an issue, but if one adores life, and needs to marry, this
will be a difficult discussion, and one might lose the person she loves. So casual
our display, where some keep silent, where soon a child is concerned. But we
never desire breakage, upon a hollow foundation, to crucify a person, and then imagine
by love. Where trust is established, in heart or mind, to then sudden upon
blisters. It kills a person, where most wanted beauty, if but to adore someone
precious.
The young
lady listens or probes or gets lost in studies; such a fierce creature, where
life is crucial, while accumulating karma.
A deep
dark soul. An illumination center; maybe partial to meditation. An intense student,
fleeing from something ugly, where one is too honest; as killing self, or
harming skies!
