I was a nihilist before I met your
eyes. They exhibit balance, caution, stability; so much a train, so much
wreckage, filled with sentimentality. You haven’t forfeited the flowers, the
moon, the stars—with struggle at your brow. I salute you.
The sun fell inside. Anxiety is
sin. With faith rising again.
Winded & exhausted,
you run the marathon; sunrise is so close, pain is segued, closeness is bodily
affectation.
I don’t mean to seduce
you. You have obligations. I only speak as it has moved the poet, yet, I
realize, kindness is addictive.
What would it look
like—desire made into glory, mercy for ravished, affected for ruined—holding to
ideals? These become reasons!
So furious. So temporal.
In love with two forces—trying to worship two masters. The agony of the scents,
pure frustration, so abashed, so naked—as the most appealing thus far.
The poet is sick,
suffering from illusions, predicted to lose all senses.
It’s surefire
religious, such gray lights, rich phenomenon—if closeness happened, it would
become discomfort … trying to get passed minutia, red tape, symbols and graphs;
the hype dies quickly, weather is only so interesting, the skies are fighting
happiness, opting for deep contagion. Sharp corners. Acute blues. Moods showing
indecision.
