it’s ordinary frustration, the pain of the instrument,
Will you be there forever? medieval mysticism, framed in dying,
merchants as sailors. the room filled with shadows, mainly silhouettes, they
speak unto ghosts. absorbed by the ability in you, to ask, Are you ready for
monogamy? to fathom quick romance, immediate satisfaction, in a sense, a
slant towards immaturity—for chase of the rose, for the ‘call off,’ for the
‘calm down’; much economy in variety, more sincerity in privacy, with a need to
feel beautiful for eternity; sweet fawning, harmful intoxication, to lust like
Lucifer. so academic, it might work; so lost, it might kill; just precise, it
might seem too much—the fire of the ecstasy, to give all one possesses, to
acquire, adjust, like crazed wolverines—so determined to leave you alone, such
a greatness, with one privileged, in a different agenda; camera champions,
enabling habits, hills fraught by labor—the laboratory, adept at acting, until
pulled in, with meaning so gray, lust and passion, a need for that one
person—not to explain it, not to justify it, simplicity becomes the measure of
our excitement. (to sense a kindness, all of its pardons, with souls
unreasonable; never putting pen nibs to ink, never asking key questions, just
toxified by attention.) the cage of the vulture, as only believable, if the
steel is torched together. an extraordinary feeling demands attention. a
certain person will give us life. like eating candy, catching a rush, it might
come with a letdown. too many categories to deplete, the chairwoman might ask,
and need to believe, if the sanctuary is fit for her and her only?
