our minds draped
in desires, pushed into corners, flicking at insecurities. most cautious
excellence, most provocative woman, every soul wants closure. many ignoble
advances, at points, receptive, in dire need of respect. looking is enticing,
touching is erotic, laughing is contagious.
pain or sorrow or
misery or all three; maybe it isn’t that deep, maybe a person is impervious,
maybe suffering comes for poverty souls, academic souls, religious souls.
the argument of
the author is an ancient one: existence breeds suffering.
many seem to
escape, left with heaviness, semi returning exploitation.
we need not speak
to substances.
poetry, its
ability to transform, makes it emotional souvenir, intellectual government,
latent arousal. to toil with meaning, not words, they are vehicles. to convey
to a person, some excellence they promote, where one needs to be great for
them. if to labor for wages, to perform with perfection, to give what one
couldn’t foresee. only in cultures, living as if unsung, finding lungs to
confess love.
only as valuable
as our prides—only as rich as our souls—racing as we do.
