the ideal is a lie. its imagery,
semblance, style, presumption, even when made near, is a lie.
many years ago the furnace was lit,
coals remain aflame, time has become irrelevant, with a fight to be on time.
aside cherry blossoms, a flicker
intense, absorbing an aura; too afar from us, if to claim us, with bodies
deteriorating over motion; some precipice, ego-pride, doing a great deal—if to
portray the image.
dying is a fact, maybe necessary, proving
otherwise is difficult—with decay lurking in the shrubberies.
a friend is an heirloom. treasured
inside. departing is painful.
the ideal is legendary, taking
souls captive—the broken parts seem prevalent: obsession with a feeling;
trancelike desperation; social faux pas; an opposition to its intention.
by an effect to move in circles—by an
energy arising inside—everything is under scrutiny … so saddened by the
reality, suspicious of the actuality … concerned about greatness—its application,
its many appellations—severed by failure, into a person’s eyes, to understand,
another might become their elation.
a person once analyzed an undertone:
“Either life is suffering, or the world is filled with sadomasochists.”
a fierce dictum. it deafens the
dichotomy … because it becomes an aphorism … we still feel resistant.
the ideal is alluring, angering,
awesome, and discomfiting.
a person will live a perfect life,
never a mistake, colored by depression and illusion, labeled as an oddity.
the ideal is a wedge, an
unplantable seed, always opposed by human frailty.
