the most gorgeous in
dying souls to have loved with rain falling; the damaged on mere glitter to
have ingested miracle poison; aside a lake in a haven so addicted to adoring
Love.
can’t negotiate with a
given heart—to have loved like grassy bugs, so many haystacks, and one needle.
i stand amazed at the
experience, the churning and chiming, to need boundaries in a mind known for
roaming randomly; so hard on Love, so easy on pain, the lecture of the valley,
and the spirits were bawling; eating sulfur so late in life, realizing, in a
hot second, the interior is why marriages go the distance: pure resonance,
concentration, violence and
voltage—screaming something
too subtle to articulate.
so argue with time the villain
of the species, with existence becoming one tremendous blur.
pulled at muscles and memories
suffocating at moments, too much to hex the loving, giving, caring soul. such
simple language—like orthodox kingdoms, secluded inside of an iconoclastic
spirit;
the omission of the
excellence, seeing in time the penalty for hasty wordage—as one denotes of more
value than completeness; too easy on perceptions, too angry with invisibility,
so cultured, so in seclusion—but i felt like seasons of resistance, echoing the
nights of hawks, livid into a womb, desiring one too executive to un-claim
—such sweet value, so
much the way we kill each other, one event, a soul destroys a number of years—needing
a guarantee, trying to give the guarantee, falling into havoc, vice, chemistry,
the valley of the one wrestling with too much to give analyses—live on!
