I
can’t imagine such love where solace is mystery or whatever one does is
sufficient. “But I give you life, for weather is stormy, or you want me desperately.”
an air like treachery, a physique like internal, to have been so much those
days. I was sick with patience. our doors so inclusive. our forest so many artificial
trees. —it was life so intense or moody agents— such jam with syrup or camouflaged vinegar
while tangy enough to remain sullen.
in hindsight or destruction I encounter a taste of wires—where Anguish becomes
herself or memories must confess: “I wasn’t her dream.” that person is
accepting, always negotiating, or adapt at finding a reason to love her. the
misperceived person, such sharp experiences, while needing excitement or
passion or guidance. in haste, we celebrate, in pain, we say, “Reprobate,” and
in needing our children, we insulate. such war through kids. such damages made
complete. or a man going manic, as that determines his entire life. to hate
that man, if but to sex that man, where he must ascribe to excellence. so many ghosts, where others listen, while
closeness doesn’t denote honesty. but
Angst deserves love, something instructive, something tolerant. as a mother by a
son or a father by a daughter where infraction is buffed away. to supply
security or to reknit facts or to only hear one part of the essay. for love
must always forgive, it must always sing softly, as we count on that!
