oh delicate silence, by social
graphs, by apricots, peaches, and apples. a soul might float, deeper into inner
waves, congested, unfiltered, feeling uncertain. it was years, not a single
glint, while feeling pegged. incorrect skies or essence by countenance, while
we evade ourselves. a man to his principles, a soul to his hunches, a grave
waiting our embrace. too much convenience or too little convenience, a man
wonders of what he endures. a grin for acknowledgment, anything to damage a
spirit, because everything he said was false. our convictions. our triumphs. or
a feeling received when most are oblivious. mainline courage, albeit, ruined, a
man will sit and feed his insecurities—a pack of pigeons a fret in honor, or
plain nothing for a man; running water, warm fabrics, a blessing comes from a
curse.
gusts of fires by fated lagoons
peering at a platypus. so tired these days. years catching pace. footprints in
our minds.
skeleton mechanics. holes for the
unexpecting. no true remorse on our souls. often, making right is mythical. it
hangs by its integrity. an apology is more for the apologetic. sweet
wilderness. aloofness made law. one is closed off to what hurts.
it stuck so long, one imagines a
landmine, when any triumph causes rejoicing. a stronger soul might let go, but
rules are engrained in skies, one must just know to acquiesce. the title is the
bear. by title I assert over you. by title alone I’m a good person. ignore your
eyes. stop paying attention. if you see too much, you’re a psychopath—despite, I
see all that you see and more.
most persons are trained, one by
textbooks, one by experience, another by both. what motivation is there in
distortion? souls gunning for us, like men chasing foxes, like falcons swooping
on other birds. the wolves watch. the compute information. they make a decision.
