was
it pain so insufferable such insolvent desecration? to crave by indifference or
to become non-functional with pressure breeding—those accounts those forests
where souls try if but to depress. at times a person endures, one will hold
coals to spirit, if but to secure a child; or essence is too split—the death is
its success—its fury becomes its pride. I couldn’t destroy discontent nor
re-sing the dungeon, where a man perdures through execution. it seems easy, as
one is desecrated, where another stands at the nose of the eagle. I would fix
us those interior waterfalls while misery might cascade. so great the screamer
so underdeveloped the dreamer while I crawl into oceanic diamonds; the eyes of
a phantom the ghosts we reenter or days so clear it begins to hurt. only if you
fly as soaring into furies while support seems intimate. a soul has no fight.
it relies upon faith. or it buries into hope. maybe Love is atheist or a
materialist or a phenomenologist; or maybe it means so little while we continue
our deaths—the longest near our history: as a man desires something disparate
or a soul mis-organizes while hell is never offset for others. (if I receive my
way, if I feel like winning, I might accept a small death in something I love.)
it will come out, it will be controversial, where prophecy will speak against
us. it will be rain, it will taste like mud, it will dispel the innocence of
the vandal—while incriminating both parents.
you will grow into
your phoenix or appear like thoughts or race like wild leopards. it seems of
great importance to a soul accused of faults where it should be its clarity. as
to reveal our closets to unbelt our cries while most everything is based in
causality. such assertion while we seek where perfect essence is supernatural.
so foul as afoul creatures where others just aided & abetted even
desecration.
