the poltergeist is at
his face, his every claim, as come to challenge his resilience.
often, the inner
demand, the mental zeitgeist, the philosophic seductress.
is it what it was,
the longer feelings, the impression in hearts—is it truly imperceptible?
some excellent
nightmare; the duty of our nations to the poor communities. this would be
Deontology,
the cut of the cult,
the ruins of the measures, the beauty in trying and succeeding. so abrasive to
hear it, so cordial to investigate it, or to know that—without assistance, one
could never near normality.
the bloat in the
atmosphere, the havoc turned into laughter, the damsel smarter than the best in
the room. the bleeding treachery, told with pure nonchalance, we haven’t begun
to understand others.
peacemaking the
calmness, hell could explode, intensities pulled in opposite directions; to
need to engage her, with a desire to efface her, while over in the distance,
one has unveiled a sentence.
fragmented
intestines. I admire from up-close, or
afar. some beauty in classic aristocracy—as in saying, the poet is reaching, as
in too high, he should accept something less lofty. (i must assert it: if i love
her, she is, therefore, a lofty creature, esp. to my spiritual eye.)
so much blatant,
twofaced forgiveness—such crooked mercy, peering into one, thinking in some
order, years invested into seeing one sentence. peering at the innocent, the
magnets, at terrors meant for goodness.
some sad silence:
cultural genocide, the people of the Holocaust, the freedom warriors, a soul is
with feelings in their pride. a person of graves inside, skeletons talking,
energies morphing.
so much pain, to win
a slither, so many riches, to appease an appetite;
i never thought of
what she carries, this goes for everyone, the tragedy in our pockets, the pain,
the PTSD, or the balance we must keep, or pretend, or the one watching!
much evasiveness.
more prevarication. we do shameful things, unable not to do them. this is where
wisdom has led us.
sure anguish,
listening to London Grammar, or feeling something seeking us, soaring through
the galaxy, laughing in good humor, asking for its ransom.
or Michel’le’s
diaries, or at Marie—cultured to adore the rhythm, the liquid, eyes rolling
with irony—to cascade forever, pouring into poverty, the gifts—a human might
conjure.
