by truth we
discard truth, in a simple displeasure—as to suggest, “That’s his or her truth.”
somewhere with crocodiles or a valley filled by leopards, where one utters, “I
don’t change my spots.” a good person might assert something in which the world
is a bad place. a bad person might assert a loss of dominant power. where a
normal person might assert life is an oyster. but, are people good? or are
people bad? moreover, we have pain in us trying to determine what normal is. it
becomes a look, a likeness, where a village, despite animalism, swears to life
a monopoly on normality.
a scientist is
going mad. friends understand. for science is embedded in furies. we decide on
what is tolerable or we reject where non-invested while precocious souls are
oddities. but what makes goodness inherent? or badness an ingredient? or
normality as meaning, against social sins? those questions, aging against time,
as antiques remain fragile.
I met lies in nineteen ninety-eight. such a creature.
to do existence expecting existence to acquiesce. it isn’t vital, but I make
inquiry, into how pain begets happiness?
we ask familiar
questions where petals fall come darkness while knowing you has become
understandable. or swimming waterless or standing in stillness, where one is silence in dreams. by disappearance into some venture as a man dies to own some
luxury. a curious man a deceased man while breathing is taken for granted.
those walls such graffiti while palms are clumping soil. a garden in Fiji a
Nigerian as wife or days recounting something as it slipped by.
to adore you becomes questionless. to esteem you
becomes inherent. but to ignore habits is unlikely. something good is valued—something
bad is examined—while many have lived out by best it was offered.
we often say, “I
need more.” as if something is waiting. while we know for comforts.
