so involved with this mirror, so
enthralled by spirit, in your eyes, the culture grieves, the satisfaction is in
making passion.
we might hate each other,
respecting elements, disagreeing, unto a particular emotion; filmed inside,
running by gates
if to find perfect acrimony.
held you in soul, gauged you in
mind, looking at a naked impression, so greater the essence of the machine.
cloth soaked in innocence, so much
more in you, before so coarse as a feeling falling into a lagoon—
the platypus screaming, touched by
purity, seared in existence, born to adore, in caring for you, it has been inescapable.
so low in a given second, so
indecent, to rise so high on a sudden pulse—those eyes, those feelings, they aid
in reading life.
trying to be excellence, making the
arduous trail, so behind our backs, to have given love to a force in its
entity.
it comes to a space, either
civilized or uncouth, it can’t be both; to need life in me, to desire pain with
glory
meshing into a pretzel.
if the feeling passes—thinking harder—you
might be the end result—the action on paper, much exuberance, much more love.
