by identity those rubber miles those concrete oceans.
it seems gray at
least in picture the depth we have chosen. we manipulate or hold office after
something incredible. such harvest those years to realize contempt while no one
answers their actions. the phones are echoing into pure silence the room is
afraid of its operator. aside an ottoman or near a sandal sits a spiral of
paper; by ink or loses where it hurts more to surrender. but a cursed identity
but waves inside tunnels or spawning one must locate. our personalities show a
riff. our schism has become public domain. while documents accumulate. such
junkyard engines, such oil spills, while some have time with discarding
animosity.
we have rules they
are bent it’s different for some creatures.
how shall we cook? the doors are
blocked. but the kitchen is empty.
we couldn’t see. or it became esoteria. as souls quite
gifted. but a spirit is angry, another is discontent, or both suffer reality.
to see faces, it causes a surge, while underestimating instincts. such training
those hours into thousands if but to perfect thirty minutes. the beige cages
the longer isles while estuaries are developed in ghettoes. sore wrangling as a
bit in colors while anxieties are in cyan. a cord to his eyes a book to his
veins, plus, dear disappointment in his conclusion. (sure as sunshine, one dear
truth, a mood switches in its aftermath.) some giant affair some lucrative
horizon as a soul watching by occupation—those dreary hallways those filled by
emptiness those so close it can’t be felt. the rising irritation its calvary or
glass inside. too distressed to unwind too clear to drink marsh or anxious in
dear respects. doorjambs. intentional caves. absent personness.
