so
unborn in me or unfledged dying in me while Love is a percentile away from me.
but a gesture to imagine, compelled reception, so faced by contagious beauty.
if but Ebola, we try against chemistry, if but my mind, how do I flee? as
assigning the tiara or at carnival excitement while hooked by fantasy. so
unnecessary our contention, so plagued by temperament, while our lives have
become allegories. our sweet ignorance, as being without knowledge, where this
is why we die. such nautical dreams, our souls floating, while we face an epidemic.
souls might pass, where we tried so hard, while reigns of control are never
surrendered. it feels terrific, to have our voice, where others carry out our
measures. but passion was tender, our sexual brooch was livid, while a man
wrestles with phantoms. such stamina to sustain life, such pain to renege on
life, while most take initiative in a substance. so precarious, such pandemic,
plus, a tragic economy. it dies slowly, this internal thought, but what if something
takes place: our atlas then fails, a man would be blamed, while miles into
isolation. we have garments where sagacity is frowned out while it must be true—those
webs we adhere to, our souls facing dilemmas, while most aren’t paying
attention. by its gamut in minds, to claim its realism, where one is refuting
those premises and caricatures.
