It can’t be real, the metaphysic of it, the existential.
By the ghosts in the apple so many years of the devil’s hands. Most believe
against reality—it’s called hope; many will pass away, guillotines screaming,
ghetto Beverly Hills. A man overdosed on it, stomach pumped on it, his wife
just watched.
Often, we see demons, can’t fix monsters, seated
passively—as nearby and staggering.
A woman is loved for being a yogi—A man is hated for
being resilient; it must be death for me, in order to be love from you, with
exaggeration off of the table.
Even liquor is boring.
To take something and change it, because happiness is
some myth. (I can’t disagree. It has its definition. Each supernatural
occurrence is bent, rooted, saturated in actuality.)
So cynical to date. Trying to outthink self. Looking
at a gorgeous physique.
The finesse of the mountain.
The waves of the essence.
By ways to enter and disappear. A soul becomes interesting—until it isn’t—this
is the cycle.
Those outwitting it—are playing a dangerous piano.
