by
whisper to un-hear pain such comfort in dying. spirit museums such artifacts
while a face appears. she speaks Arabic by translation a soul made clearer. so
much to burnish a man by crimes where he desires chastity. by filth to unlock
social gospel or gnats to become diligent—born to exist or to live, there are
variations! by what measure to have loved where it was a man’s delusion:
softened by craziness or undressed by intuition where one has never, where it
didn’t hurt. brighter theology, succinct wrongness, while it destroys his
existential: motion in our masks, sweet utterings while so distant from our bodies—such
a woman, so detached, where she plays distant unawareness… so much is burning
such a goddess rank or days he would meditate his daughter; to have insults for
pain to rage like fools while lucky to have existence. sure augmented cadence,
certain sugarcane berries, as time allows for fruition. so mad at self this
warrior losing or winning in obscure areas; spirit is unique, it blends with
energies, where a goal is to live in pleasurable thoughts (both yours plus
theirs). it becomes experience so close to a person but unclear of a chant in
them. a Hindu woman looked at me, without hesitation, she struck a blow, energy
summons by winds—such a devout listener such responses in collaboration, while
dying is an option we often suggest; such rich science, such a dear mystic, I lose
account of mental activities; a fear in me, where losing isn’t an option, but
ever a reality; to force his brains as to surrender to nescience by crest to
admire those eyes: those tender eyes as a man un-experiences just about every
traumatic wound. his soul bubbles—so unclear at wakes, where his eulogy might
read, "Angel!"
