by aesthetic or beautiful it entails actuality
embolden by the minds of an audience. to see ankles or legs and thighs to
measure hips, torso and shoulders—where faces are oval or strawberry or long
feverish mane. a woman’s narrow back while a soul is shy if to imagine passion
so freely. but something remains, an unsteady feature, where many don’t praise
beauty. such self-sabotage or affliction with razors while addicted to potent
chemicals. so much so it’s difficult to speak beauty it rages against self,
it’s seen as its curse. we never heard her. we appraised her traits. we dared
not speak. she approached us, looked with scrutiny eyes, shook her head and
steadied her disappearance. such younger creatures, exposed by brevity, left to
decipher what was witnessed. being in essence as pure phantasm when it meant
eternity. so graphic we refrain so innocent we don’t fathom, while so
susceptible we can’t believe it. such magnolia flesh, such magenta eyes so firm
so feral—to have undressed his soul to listen with expectation where stomachs
still fluttered. our butterfly syndromes our acute satisfaction where an entire
world is eager. we would die come summer. our address was returned to fate.
while never so much discord. once so brilliant or bold or reduced to laughter
where a mere hour into another’s quarters. by distressed minds by rhythmic
fires so excluded from inner rationale. a neck with tears or non-understanding
if to imagine a woman’s confliction. by reaching turmoil or deadening shrieks
so deafened to its reality. it seems tragic, as it mostly is, while we have
more to discuss: its heat, helium, or haven; it grumbling greater giggles; or
angel minded and autonomous madness. so much to perish, or so little in most
souls, where we look so knowingly at one unaffected. by harder tasks or
indifferent masks while authors are becoming monsters. but Love’s nape or spine
where it becomes like perfect. such noisy emotion, such freedom to change, or
something inexperienced cleaving to sugarcane. our credulous curiosity, so
hateful by love, becoming both paradox and illusion.
I laugh again, such
smoldering giggles, while suited for a coffin. if but precious antennae or
rapacious appetites while rereading our saga. so much antipathy, while humans
harden, insomuch as something delicate becomes a one-month sex feast. to
believe in romance or portals if but one parachute to live by faith or to have
by grace while I never watched her. in fury to explode while a man grows weary
insomuch as becoming a lonely creature. our wines or sour grapes accustomed to
certain rites. our mornings needing Love our nights with gratitude or evenings
at a somber trance. such infestation to alter our lives where it was so
inexcusable. our minds wrangling, our voice by its absence as sitting or
waiting for a genius to speak. our quirks or confusion. our moods enlightened.
for Love just entered in cashmere. to move from physicality, or to speak to
wits, where minds move or zip like race horses. those dear mystic souls as
enhancing one’s existence while feeling underappreciated. (How do we satiate an
insatiable craving?) so combined by emotion, or hungering like lionesses, where
even satiation is partly settling. (I slightly offend. to suggest women are
searching. even when satiated.) only private intake could reveal such
possibility where beauty is sought by each soul. to receive admiration, becomes
addicting stimulation, while saying, no, could become its frustration. we turn
then, to a religious creature, while Love is pints of raspberry frustrations.
for it must implode, those rigorous rites, where it must invert to anger. our
abbess is cruel. our nuns are mean. while energy is fueling something we call
by abstinence. but secular squares or public souls as needing a number of
delights: spouse or loyalty; child, Labrador, and riches; plus, comfort,
devotion, and faith. such paradox as to obtain these things, to then look
inwardly and feel stagnant. such realism for men, to desire every woman, where
there is effort in committing to but one. he never admits it. he’s usually in
fantasy. where Love is utterly an illusion. (so unreal! so cherished! where he
feels guilty, albeit, inactive.)
