do regard
composure, living medieval years, dreaming as souls do. so much a need for
justice in a well of histories, so aligned, so different. many tales of
silence. many childhood silhouettes. rather a soul isn’t homesick. sundown
cigarettes. superficial meaningfulness. most vie for freedoms, a few
vulgarities, with a drive for purity. if to atone—feeling exchanged, like persons
reborn. maybe without a voice, maybe a box in a vox, a song with a distinct
melody. like unsure souls, searching for certainty, gripping, grasping,
grappling with existence; the yoke of the dreamer, the spirit stoic, hassling
with sugary sins. you know the
crucible. you have measured pressure, passion, pain—torn by terror, aloof,
filled with angst. so much sunshine,
like a sunburst, life becomes method memories. you own myriad mirrors, fret impassive
compassion, looking to overthrow an ageless ego. so numb at moments, too much medicine, one
more parental gift. you have studied
monads, irreducible parts, with no belief in their reality. you feel heavy—invisible matter—so many
differences in beliefs—so many perceived reservoirs; like with symmetry, an
asymmetrical life, contradiction meaning more than clarity, if to live a life
with hidden designs: a complete and partial labyrinth.
