the point is the
fire. pain is quite educational. the justice is in the lovemaking. aria ears,
metaphoric eyes, dwelling inside—and running to the cauldron. hurting like
giving up. holding a scarf, filled with excitement, the soul flaming again.
such a synaptic furnace, more to religiosity, the lines are so thin; to picture
the inrush, a slight presence, makes a soul weary of the future—as in spirit,
never knowing authenticity, so alive, mandating its course. could have been
isolated, aborted, or next to a person loving the remedy—at bent in winds,
allergic to failures, alert in the meadows; daffodil scented, too much pride,
wearing it in all of my dealings. droplets dripping into dungeons. demons
probing perfection. the pain of the palatial, confined in the problem. trying
to maintain, too many feelings, icy might not be the gates; at the point of
tendons, the last lecture, so much clearance and clarity, made cleansed in
excellence—if but to pass away.
