It becomes
unlikely for this caliber or a viper behaving its life. It becomes religiosity
or exterior characteristics which contradict inner dialogue; it becomes split
personality or surfing voices or celled and pleading against some demon; it
makes little sense, it has no appeal, and it’s unbelievable. (but something
this unexplained sky or tears and silence and an inability to arise.)
She was
beautiful. Such pleasant displeasure. So organized to suffer. Our miracles with
dishonor. Our nails with breakfast. After thunder and disappointed.
It would
arrive at night. This fervent rupture. Where dots formed behavior. A dear
epiphany a deep curse or facial recognition.
What
has a mind to sacrifice—if not by human endeavor?
I have
censored myself. I have practiced giving my last rites. Or better, I have
committed to a solemn apology; but wishes become rawness, where I might beg and
implore, but Agony refuses to grant freedom. It is quite sadistic and more
masochistic or socio-disorderly. This private element we chance. This dance we
camouflage. Or we give it in sediments.
So human
it kills me. Or so professional womanhood seeps out. But a rare cello, but a
writhing trombone, or something akin to Africa Utopia. Those channels those
watts or such legend coming back to assail mind-waves; this ghost this fire or
so at a point to destroy anything.
What
or how has this become? Has it ever been one to fault? Our perfect order, our
swimming reigns, or contesting that the other has nothing to be peeved about! So
self-concerned, where this condition is blind, or better, “I’ll respect the
hell to when it’s good.” Such tender eloping or ravenous darkness while I had
never met this one: pure sky-hair, an elongated neck, a familiarized, even
meditative body—coarse abeyance or watching in crime at such harms to infuse
poverty. This fury while in limbo or this absence never to return while quite
comfortable with status quo.
People
dying in frustration. A doctor sensing breakage. While I can’t become for
mother.
An orchestra
for dinner. A violinist for church. Or a friend somewhere watching. [At dynamics.]
We must observe dynamics. The box was built by dynamics. (a broken home or
deceased parents or a lost daughter…so much more to perish, so much more to
give, where this is determined by one’s inclination. “but it’s so minor, or
sheer prophetic,” while assessment relies upon desire!)
His
heart in tenor His soul in opera or His grave reneging on contract. Such marrow
beneath bone
such
ruby teal cries
or
so concerned it becomes its prison; if but to relax where everything is natural
and anxieties are brunch specials; as admitting nothing while delivered or
sacrificed
by recognition
admiring humanism.
