many will see you.
some will heal you. one will take an oath with you.
the season of glass
the angst of writing or needing correction; if but in character maybe a few
traits or maybe to fix is to destroy.
such deeper
intentions such rich consequences our ghostly ambition. it seems muddy to me where one has
expectation but facts don’t support the inner portrait. so fair its fire so great its galaxy after
pure possession. to have our souls to couple with bodies where everything was
left in debris.
to find courage to
sit in warm water to decide upon the dearest old person—fleeing as destined,
such myths as accustomed to skipping on reality. so commandeered so captured while it doesn’t
happen. pure frustration as walls are
redeemed or sentences hold damages where many would heal you. eyelids speak they have for eternity while
one is suspicious of essence. so, we
ignore potentiality in wealth for growth while sharing our alphabets. the opened dungeon those floating
expectations where I never asked you.
(I know what I know. I feel what I feel. I have separated myself.
it’s joy for one
or misery for another or both are racing against promises. the essence so
close, it dies like seasons it comes back in full bloom. it’s angry but
unbeknownst. or sad with essence. or angry at itself. art isn’t serious enough
pain must find its fix essence remains grieving.)
by frail
understanding by broken asphalt just pieces of a person sitting in stillness.
by reasons in our
winds by incorrect assessments or incorrect trust; to imagine a person, simple
by attraction, so many promises.
I fret it rising
while another is at joy but there is only access—those parties those stories
where two must plan for marriage. the
pain we renew the forgiveness we renew or mutual distaste. will it be their touch as infinity where
age has requirements?
