it flew by me—the reign of visuals,
a need for clear ambition.
the stress to bend sentences,
desiring self-occupancy, a tale told to seekers.
the true uneasiness becomes the
floating possession—of lions, and cheetahs, and the insult of loving out of
classification.
most unsteady. most pure at times.
maybe raised in it, chasing it, needing to exhaust the specimen. the most
melancholic fight, the sad wilderness, to have adored, needing social
rehabilitation.
so trying, made productive, communion
is its predestination; flesh and bone, soul and mind, many might argue the two
are brothers and sisters.
it’s hard to ask, or suggest, as
coming by a legit candle, or just a flare occupying dead time. the airs of the
components, the feelings of the shrine, the valley of the desolate.
the messiah inside, the Christ
inside, if one grew, as further into winds, accustomed to intervening. maybe
for worth, maybe for crown, maybe for excellence, perfection, dice, and pain.
a line through Isaiah, Jerimiah,
the soul punctured, thereby, opened, with insistence disrupting, by intention,
the art of the comforter.
by the inception, if not the
healing, so hurt, displeased with what has become existence. maybe tears, or
product on tables, beginning with catastrophe, before fortune.
I ignore another, expecting naivete,
the person has an itch—those ideals, moral excellence, ethic ambition—these elements
are not pivotal.
made imperfect, striving for
perfection, the cycle seeming uneasy, unclear, racing for something partially
contained.
many walk away from the ambition.
more feel conflicted. in avoidance, the hurting starts.
maybe the gila monster is human,
climbing, made attractive—to augment, hinder, or frustrate the swaying
ambition.
spawned and left behind. the
reality of so many. it drives the human soul.
or granted fortune, discipline, and
honor, learning early to work harder.
