I
took to predicament such uneasy chaos while losing so much it seems normal. I fright
for you as such a militant creature. to have died so early where life is unfair
while searching for meraki if but something giving illusion while striking at
life the cliff so damn beautiful! it takes years if but to undam an instinctive
personality. the daughter to privacies or darkness or too much light to
contain. we might not make it. this is fire so redundant. but love aches where
it feels horrific. those wilder trees those sap-ridden underbrushes. so much
soil such salacious properties while souls have unvested if but to return. such
transmigration as exploding faces while a thought created its flame. I study
India. I act in Raja Yoga. I wrestle so much in Christianity. such a gray
truth, so wicked, but too much has transpired: the entrance spirit, the human
kiss, or a body entering itself; as so much more, where tongues are an undergoing,
while each language appears too elusive. but they know as they seclude while we
designate those as pseudoscientists. by apocrypha or Torah, NT, or all but
more; to incubate in spirituality, as deepness means occurrences, while a soul
might become irremovable. it was
sensories to have spoken while I was disturbed by reality if but blaming self
for a daughter’s outcome: those indifferences, or those maxims, or felt but
comfort with but womanly figures.
it becomes deeper
mindedness or breakage from the puppet-life into steeper accountability—those
maps in us those cheetahs at fires or days at a temperature feeling unbearable;
those insufferable broods our minds needing war where pain gives as it drives.
such afflatus or epiphany or trying to locate an elucidative balance—where Love
is life, growth, by adamant passion or something in motion fretting its angelic-atrophy.
so concerned, while it becomes so eschewed, where true discomfort rules as our
giants. as to seem but palaver, in a richer cosmos, while singing silently
doesn’t appear to have fury.
