the beauty in
vulnerability, its chaos, its destruction; a soul living incomplete, always
disconnected, ever trying to make it home. with fury building, lashing out, magnified
by stranger palms. so holy, for she swims in pain, no offenses, many trespasses.
blood vessels popping—aside glass made steel, ferric castles; to have died
forever, if to live forever, such pure contradiction. a soul is denied
entrance, he roams endlessly, he lands on one struggling—the funeral of
furniture, sweet campfire romance, with injuries mounting to skies; a soul we
love, is a soul we desire, where monopoly is so difficult, damn near
impossible.
I was low one
morning, I thought of a person, I entered concentration. many have not an ankh,
so mad with bells, with fragrance wafting serenely. voltage, or hello! at
terrible frustration. many veils unfolding, many unyielding secrets, at times
too close to breathe. needing security, cursing security, like dying for
security; the last pamphlet, detailing our lives, too much empty space—as to
climb walls, to kick pebbles, a soul sits on the staircase: watching,
incorporeal spirits, alive, yelling in silence; pure beauty, to have body, more
mind in its torture …
