re-voiced or received such terror to live
ostracism. the city is empty. the valley rejects us. while an optimist married
into her affliction: pure rage, such disregard, with utter cultural disgusts.
but we need beauty, such so physical, while some are pathological: as never a
clue, until it hits fire, where one desecrates mind, soul, & body.
I
find it difficult. I find it’s an outrageous suggestion. the idea is shocking.
such
a battle so lost in graves while culprits have found new victims. it colors
like death. it aches like riches. it gives us something new to evaluate; but we
can’t say anything.
I hear silk, such mature pain, so emergent
or radical or unclear: to die the situation, such lifelike feathers, where silence
in pictorial.
it
was so much it couldn’t be articulated as to look over at a person with no
respect for self, so nasty, so discredited. a man is a stalker of his sanity, a
voyeur of his mind, but a participant of his desecration. (no wonder we’re
angry, or at times violent, where such is never feasible. the surreal lake
those realized feelings, while one denies your decency: such modern slavery,
such expected servitude, where one says, “I adore you.”) the parade dies those
feelings are dependent they require unadulterated submission. where a picture
appears, such tactile ambitions, while one becomes another person’s project; in
deep tears, to have boundless faith, where love has suffocated; for it never
lived, it lives for violence, it has determined to infect a nation: we wonder,
but evidence shows it, where we demand a damn refund!
I pluck a mimosa or look over a balcony remembering
those laughs. where one is so proud, so obvious, where the woman could care
less. but he needed to be seen, he needed to unveil, while we search our forest
for speculation.
the
sun is set. it speaks glimmers. it will die with us!
