I listen to the
unsaid. I miss much of what’s said. it seems like pain is on an island … all
alone, watching birds, praying to a phoenix … a fireball, a mystic, a yogi. I seek
differentiation, to analyze subtleties, while probing similarities. most don’t
mind dying, if it shows resurrection, if it means you will love again. sure
imperfections, intangible weights, the last albatross. to have lived forever,
it seems cruel, nonetheless, most die too soon.
I felt fever
framed in passion. your body is contagious. your lips are pouty. I haven’t a
clue. years are catching us. dying isn’t as beautiful as before.
I intuit to a
flaw. I cleave to discouragement. winners advance quickly.
so much a charmer,
merely gazing, feeding ducks; a believer in essence, as swimming through
darkness, a bashful, audacious believer. to have touched in spirit, meant so
little, you perceived I had peace. so terrible we become, so gifted like skies,
most put wonder on you. to carry it is heavy. he must be a miracle. I couldn’t
do what he does.
it’s amazing: a
soul wants another soul—too weak to sustain unsaid soul; where unsaid soul
needs admiration, to die in the metre, in much using, a soul uses in return. I haven’t
a clue—with all my running—if only to gaze a little further.
