spirit
is mizzling, souls are at masquerade, not by stealth, by deliberate masks.
pain is in art. such black-brown
tears. convenience becomes necessity.
unlatched. none knew it. it was kept
contained.
restitched.
it was both our responses. it was absence in the author.
how to chastise teenagers? how to
absorb more of self than others? it’s impossible
proximity.
mourn-shut
eyes, shelters shackled, morosity prowling.
one
will trespass, writing his story, he is not free to tell his story; nay, he
must tell it accordingly, the battle of the narrator—is to ensure the audience
is protected.
I could
be in some mood; I am in some mood; perception is inward, outward, filled with
mirrors.
a cactus
afar, bristles inside, brisk winds surging into excellence.
I
have doubts. I have suspicions. I re-veil kindly.
intuition
is knit to passion. numbers are in circular motion. good times for other than
the author.
I anticipate the axiom, the maxim is
different, it depends on the narrator.
in a
soul lives conviction: it’s right because I believe it; it’s wrong because I don’t
agree.
I have
rethought my instincts, trying to keep rightness at the forefront, diligent
mistakes. does the author write for the audience, self, or both? many may say—it’s
for both.
