porcelain or glass
or fragile and frail, much is our existence. wenge reality orange reality or
amaranth eyes. sapphire palms holding a leaf angered by reality. we differ so
plainly. we try to ruffle feathers. you’re protecting a monster.
color runs society—our
breastplates are colored—all we tend to embrace is color. over a glass
harmonica, at a porcelain flute, much a fragile beginning. they might love us,
to varying degrees, while love’s definition is internal.
eating reality or
palming hibiscus or trying to frame if Morrison went too far. there’s a certain
truth: they may not agree, they may reframe you, they will assuredly remarket
you.
we find in
sensitive souls a notion to lash out—we find lifetime rosaries, a vase made of
hair, or ancient laws of spiritualism. most things are known before coined.
I have blockage
over love those flames in love, I’m clearer about love. it demands clarity. its
root is changeable. love depends upon interpretation.
I understand we
endorse love, we spread love, we play piano for love. it comes frequently, or
never not at all, it depends on one’s definition of love.
our zeitgeist
includes love as a universal while many are oblivious to altruistic love. for
many, love is lackadaisical, quite inclusive, centered in some drug usage. it
feels good. it travels for miles. it never fails us, we fortify love.
let growth scream
in agonizing pangs while aloft in sentimental love—for she dines in Europe, she
chances excellence, she’s repulsed and utters nothing—like fire in loins or
flame in bones or canine fangs—to have died to live forever in apricots or
plums rawer essence into a corpse. let love reign like rubrics like beliefs
without sturdy foundation—or like skies so self-supported, we can’t see but
blues. often, love is elementary, leaning into Paris, or confined on Alcatraz.
sweet terrible
love. a danger we can’t get right. wow to most complicated perceptions.
many might say
love is relativistic—like all of existence.
