(“It
gets easier, some routine, some clairvoyance.”) we read for clarification. the
winds have crushes. rapping for one, or noises to another. unphysical wires so
linked we seem while most are unapologetic. some curse with wings some
generational curse its root is in trainings. graven minds. or a woman’s medium.
while so far into negligence. I used to write You, between sugar apples, or
honeydew melon. it seemed essential, if but to survive, it’s mainly mental
these memoirs. much in doctrine those days rehashing old theology confused
about so much. sweet sickness as opposed by many while fretting mechanics. a possessed
woman a burnished discipline a trance woman. so great a need to make you pious
so contorted when you act differently. some pride or problem in me. some
reluctant identity. while it hasn’t been many years—since votes were ignited or
dress codes changed or respected as orators. “It gets easier, some routine,
some clairvoyance.” we say things, we haven’t a clue, while it hurts one it
might infuse another. I used to write You, while eating pears, looking into
dynamics, it wasn’t so outdated yet. I worship mentally. I do it all day. I look
a little different now. have you seen me, I would like more answers, it might
be nice to see substance? the fig for instruments those apricots for alphabets
or honeycrisp nectarines. I saw a person, it isn’t often, I was a tad
concerned. it denies that way, it pillages during silence, I see faces. it’s
been some time, erasing feelings, while they always catch up. it gets easier,
right? something we commit to. something making less sense these quarters. more
winds more crushes. our departing hearts. such elegance in our imaginations. I worship
mentally, a fret in many, I internalize You. to taste my shadow to eat my
emotions to intellectualize something a mystic inn. such hardasses such an
apologue so much us against reflection; to see one clearly such as to miss self
so coarse with one acting like me. a series of clay aphorisms a fit thrown by
allegories while we wonder why many aren’t listening. it can’t go both ways,
but we see it does, while we make fire; those shy pronouncements those mistakes
taste like wheat, our souls facing dissention.
