I can’t
find the seasons, nor the millennia, nor those feelings. I awoke a bit flat, I strategized
inwardly, I watched as thoughts waved freely. it was so idealistic, such pure
idyllic pain, if but to surrender to one dying in sequences. upon a gumdrop to
have such zeal where age becomes familiar with agony. the horizon a daughter’s
eyes or a mother quite certain she’s freedom. those boxed foxes those tyranny
tailors such awesome acmes. by a petal or a palatial cry if but to adore this
way; such humans at abandon such deliverance while we become our habits. our
throttle for excellence our caves in cities where craving you was sickness.
by abstract thoughts to arrive at
concrete while a woman internalizes: such glacier rhythms or demanding
sincerity while life becomes our comforts. to save us from panic to
un-devastate our armor, while we’d have our deeper emotion.
some
postmodern angst those ribbons while beautiful if one hasn’t been abrasive—to self
or solace in shivers or lakes such fire or deeper discomfort. those
all-consuming secrets those intimate messages where one sits in her mind’s anonymity.
the hope for plurality such games as we push pieces where thin veils fall
apart. to know deliberateness to have destroyed a person’s innocence while
proud to disappear. such a vacuum, Love, if to protect your soul, for pain is
on its prowl.
so viable by a dream so surefire by
remedy or such deep understanding—as to reach humanity if to undress
defensiveness while partly caged; where timbre flickers or majesty is close so
far into some rare person. if but consumed so decorated such winning
exposition; our exhibited joys our enhancing miseries while a person might be
so delicate—as a precious creature to never offend while souls learn to relate.
