the
seven deadliest sins, maybe fabrication, maybe actuality.
to
grin in you—while losing you—a person becomes integrity. those backwoods living
rooms, furniture in sociality, rhythms pumping uneasiness.
Love
is powerful. Love is anger. Love is love. such contradiction, much a paradox,
much more a reality.
looking.
it’s a gala. it’s identity on its chalkboard. many erasable images. many more
esteemed faces. we begin to examine contours, countenances, desirability.
I
would meet you; you would fall apart; affection was hard to obtain, love was a
mystery, while physicality kept closing its doors.
in
excellence a need for many persons as it respects culture. the chill of
longevity. or possession of absolute quality. it takes consciousness to stand
aside. the fire of roses, those tulips wilting, as life becomes more intimate.
with more to give, less to receive, many people remain unfed.
to
hunger in eternity, as smiling for culture, so serious concerning esteem. pure
wilderness, righteous volume, as debated inside; arcs filled with wishes, New
Year’s accessories, each day becomes a challenge.
I
would cross paths with legendary mysticism aside intimate beauty—a need to
redress facts, a tendency towards delusion, at months regaining symmetry; as
comes with diligence, despite, never a morsel, eating the seven deadliest sins.
what
was it, it was vinegar, it was anxiety? losing interest, in the axiomatics, is
a defense mechanism. thrown into it describes survival of the fittest.
if
possible, you might unnail me, pure altruism, as to ignore me.
I
desire nothing, I need everything, nights are fraught with fire.
