the
pages flip, life as an invisible creature, with spots of interests; a feeling
with definition, with nothing left, sinning against an inward person.
communication against one long deceased, scenarios deeper inside, defending
self too late. longing for freedom, sensing in the cycle, we might leave others
with traumas—despite, intention.
thoughts capture images. the faces are many. so sure it was deliberate
pain. a soul must cleanse—truly get
deeper inside—to clear out debris, the absent self, the passive suffering. we might hide—behind library brains—if lucky,
some healing might ensue—more passivity.
some softer touch as younger souls; it means so much to know with
patience—the tides are different, haven’t been here, everything is new … the
feeling of love, before a jaded fretting, desiring forceful excellence … we
call it passion. nothing left, as
calling it mine, while it reaches incessantly; so satisfied—during exchanges,
so worthy, it begins to ache. to have adored characteristics, upon cherishing
traits, bodies disputing captivity … or … so madly at passion, so deeply
conveyed, comporting according to satiation—the love of skies, the permanence
of the feeling, the granite vows. to die in essence, to drink emotion, to read
one another from clear across the room.
