it’s confusing to see—to inherit desires,
so disparate, unique, alike. I, too, need closure, quite irrelevant, because
most are hurting.
the fury drives many.
it’s morning. voltage is low. I awoke with
inquiry—a subtle irritation, probing meaning, delight, immovability.
I could settle on love—quite arbitrarily—quite
ironically, quite self-sustainingly.
another ideal—something impermanent,
something self-imposing.
quite valid—a mandala—a mandolin—so self-possessing.
to love an adversary; to turn the other
cheek; despite, evidence—pointing to survival.
if higher stature would resist—even an
ideal, with training, education, How have many a chance?
some things cannot be proven—intuition makes
them viable, to admire, plus, dislike, it gets confusing.
an incident will enhance mobility, deplete
faith, or leave behind ambivalence ...
for there is ever a complaint: “It isn’t
done right. I do it like this.” or flat out: “I just don’t like you.”
these become viable reasons—if to discount—with
a person trying to win favor—at his on displeasure.
some complaints are made viable,
arbitrarily—with pain wrapped around lint.
the fur of the unyielding—by a deep
uneasiness—most likely—with reflection; as reflexive souls, roaming cues,
tampering, tweaking perception—in love with agonies.
