I suspect most
need ideals, an expectation of existence, a reason to give in totality—the all
of the survivor, the deck of the ship, the swoosh of the swami.
inside sensei
swirls, abased made whole, rummaging mental hives; softness, gentility, sullen
courage, pride suffocated by humility—a deeper space, a chilling nightmare, asserted
by water;
the flame of the
conduit, aqua marine animals, aside sinking feelings; if but toes in lakes, bikinis
made snug, memories uncursed, smiles offering contentment—to die a sliver,
shivering
from anxieties, so
tender, made closeness, one unyielding kiss.
I suspect most
need ideals, once they vanquish, misery becomes palpable; as for now, we hide
it well, or it leaks out, or it’s made deliberate to appear.
cultural, mystic
cries; perfect imperfection; a lady I’ll never know—sharp innocence, I would
forever lie, as certain description yields fruit—nor sexual a bird in its pain.
