I never
read it, or it came, while sitting in stillness. I never wrote it but I thought
it, it became conviction. going over tenets softly, at so strange a feeling,
where bodies sense and send messages. a sun was in sickness, a person was
speaking unkindly, he divulged hidden rooms. but it’s never love, not of quality,
while it’s always love. some feature in a gem or a feather in a hat while most
stir-fry pastes in onions. I drift at times. I just write at times. the last
days have been contemplative. some adjective some inner city as we feed our
intelligent goals. to watch indecision to feel pressured or to yield to a
kinder self. our hectic delights as smaller creatures while genetics are jungle
related. so casually we became apes so inherently anti-religion, at minds in
books looking forward. many are denied certain privileges or certain dying is
apropos, insomuch as art has been indicted. I was a soul in a dungeon I was
released. I was an animal made domestic I have a few reasons. I was biblic as a
song where others were offended. I was a charlatan as a seed pleading to open
senses. I was a pirate in a city lost to a guillotine. it directs differently
it becomes its soul while it might blame others for its actions. I have said
nothing. it just seems crucial. while we excuse our flatulence. the earth is
moving, I’m never stillness, while we wrestle pestilence. I would find a favor
in a friend while fretting its destiny. another was cocky, as it seemed like
carnival, as some magical element. never based in realism, but angry it failed,
while its excellence became its prison. to scold a man an unfaithful friend
while enacting similar qualities; where to look at life, trying to patch every
angle, losing to one right in walls? it aches, and it can’t be said, where we
might nurture a lie; to give it breath to infuse its name as adopting darkness
as a child; to pet its bread, to clean its fears, or to watch and listen as it
continues. but a small person, in vast comparison, while I hope most are
enjoying strawberries. for days are fire, evenings are chaos, while most apologize
because they are confused. to imagine such reality, as to allow such
indecision, while knowing, with certainty, the one saying sorry has done no
wrong.
