like being
ensconced or gravel laid crookedly or sensing winds at that second.
I trespass a
thought: “Real love has no obligation.”
while a great
aphorism, a tender expression, love has demarcation. maybe rosemary chicken, or
steaks on the grill, or to glance into a person – to sense treasure, or topaz
seas, or mineral skies. I wax certainty. I unveil her charm. we might search
for her, only to desecrate her. soft unspoken music, chants in his soul, a
philosophic/systemic cottage. sometimes a person is a machine. he misses
elements – for he craves for intellectualism. others watch, they grow weary, they
attack. I wanted nothing aside for expertise while this feels uncanny … for
most desire some remedy some cure some allegiance. never to agree, but on one
note, most use in order to be used. it seems like vertigo or palatial illusion
as a person becomes self-possessed. they run us into valleys. they massacre our
trust. they grow angry with our nonchalance. so much an advocate for peace, but
peace seems dependent, some seem to chase our authenticity.
I broke a padlock,
I burned a noose, I still have a problem defining freedom.
I know a place
inside it mourns our gravity it has become gravid water. like baseball, running
to plates, we only touchdown to try its repeats. but Love was a feeling an
observation, it never felt beyond its quarters.
some are quite
unsteady, in a harmless perception, while our world has developed jackals. the war
is inside those conceptions are roboticized while those ingredients become
habits. one man is assured of tyranny, another of preciousness, another of
combat. we need to know rightness of thought. we need an immortal treehouse.
but we need more those acquiescent walls. so small a gnat. I chase it
indefinitely. where easiness becomes abused perceptions. upon a vine laughing
where suddenly, a fret becomes a feeling and I tremble. (I hope to surpass
birdwatching.)
