its value in a
feeling, the killing of its soul, a pirate with a mirror.
fretting absence,
forgotten in time, so enlove—it’s unrequited … the angst we must endure
as humans, as
spirits, to need so much—it will never be fruits.
the premise is
desolation, the pillars are isolation, the meat is undue yearning … maybe with
reason, a feeling finding a feral creature, an undecided death, the breath of
solace.
major paradox:
in suffering I find
myself; in danger, I see my seas; in a location, afar the spin, stars align in
anguish … dripping spirit-fluid, damaged in strife, accursed, with a big
brimming smile.
just need to
believe, just need to undo stoicism, just need to do nothing …
the feeling is an
obsession, it screams to keep distance, it laughs at private fantasies.
hang a wreath, stitch
“Pain” atop it, tell me the sun is angry. tell me I haven’t felt it yet. tell
me the skies are pleased with sorrow.
