so inward, Love, such a militant, but militancy should not overcome humanness.
the true decade those hills where
miracles are disbeliefs.
we come by excellence. we shine like
chemicals. where exterior conflicts with realized gatherings.
a man lives as haunted. his eyes are
in shock. if reality, it’s esoteric. to unravel into deliverance while most are
unaware.
there are souls, the Spanish
culture, they speak from interior; a volt returned, fire stirred, these become
evidence of our beauty. I stumbled into this, a woman shot a spark, I responded,
& she said, “Good!”
by our lake into its halcyon such
serenity while deaths are wiggling. at each stage, in our happenstance, there’s
an amateur.
brown-coal eyes or
saffron pigment where wolves are watching. I couldn’t give more while we
desired confirmation where reality is its perception. it wasn’t where it dies,
as arranged with gentility. thoughts grew limbs, animation was darkness, while
some caricatures become such certainty.
I saw something, dear embarrassment, while those weren’t the holder’s
portraits. nonetheless, it becomes
concrete, where a soul must stand judgement.
I find a deep truth, when given standards, everyone must measure up. it seems prescription for one,
notwithstanding, desire, it becomes maxims for others. we do this consciously. in an effort to
better ourselves. while truly convicted by the realities of others. this is life. it determines us. if but,
whom we shall adore?
