To address a person, needing satisfaction,
left with a chasm; most deliberate, meant to create tension, some form of
seductive torture. I hope life is
pure, free of dilution, free of dyes; most radiant, rectitude, forthcoming joys
and raspberries. If tales were told,
what animal would you be? Each one holds implication. I was with desire. I realized it was
foreign in me. To take self from
itself. You were pointing out the
million-dollar worth in you. That’s
decent. It is now an observation. It
can’t be shared in totality. It was gifts acquired to compensate for gifts
underdeveloped. Up close, you are
seen; further away, you are felt. What was the reason? It wasn’t for me. It was
always for you. Something held a sacred space, and it was misused, for an
infraction. The chaos was in you. It just needed an excuse. It should be at
rest. It isn’t. Flattery sets off alarms. Exaggeration is
dismissed. Underappreciation is insulting, and misinformed. I will rest in not knowing you. I will
exist in the caress of an aggressive petal.
The race is swift to the mark; you must increase. What prevents the rescue, when one is in
distress, pure displeasure, a refusal to reach, while it builds so high, we
find things are as they were meant to exist, to persist. Quite appeasing to the well-informed; such
with eye-wings, to get into motion, where souls become vulnerable. Kept at length, a mile long, rubies and
terrors, another must intervene. We would be indebted.
It would be a lack of attraction—to
look closer—and see the miracle; the gait made daily, the pages read and
reread, the demanding world, the initiative you make. I never got on your good
side, neither did I do greatly—as to get on that other side. At times, souls
respect demarcation, instead of becoming a fleeting frenzy—I wasn’t designed to
blurry you—while dreaming of blurring you, an ethical conundrum. The sickness
of the person, to do right, lusting to do wrong, what’s worse—when one carries
the desire? I am surprised at myself. Neither wanting the need of the immortal
creature, nor wiping myself clean of the prosperity of spiritual legacy. The
misused becomes the curious, the hurt soul becomes the one by dismissal. In
hurting, two would get closer, never able to trust the alliance. In essence, it
has overstayed its luxury—osmosis hath served its purpose, the remainder is
mockery, derision, never with full appreciation.
