it
would bury me or sustain me while keeping away from discord. our traveled
spirits our devastation to find such honor with death. we met by intervention,
it appeared as coldness, while I felt suspicious: those days attempting if but
to exist as beauty so sexy so disenchanting: pure testament, or jamesia helium,
or appealing but ignored. sensories are captured while forgetting she’s a woman
where we can’t select which reason. but Love over there, so precise, remodeling
her chair—by devastated skies or this terrible scare if but a germ to wreckage
existence. but Dove is bejeweled by unseen photographs to jolt a soul or
disappear or into tears such joyous perception. I feel unsure looking or
debating where it’s easier to disregard: while it might intrigue, but too many
personalities are hard to associate consciousness: too sporadic or too
capricious while Love over there is trying to refrain—not by intimacy, but
madness, while we wear our facial gear. I have sentenced us to life by
suspicion where it should but impair fractions; by moonlit nights over a smooth
cigar or heavy at something private; by voltage with ease, where it truly isn’t
much, but we expect something for our invisibility: to intuit existence, or to
loosen hostilities, or to fall by sensories; but a point to drill, despite
those elements, “I am power and must be loved.”
