With needs for joy, happiness,
maybe elation; souls under pavement, a morbid routine, made most the signals.
Too young to remember—exactly the ruins, the onset, the gray regions. A soul
grows saddened, the debut is horrifying, many apologize for what they couldn’t
intuit—the damages, the trashbins, presuming, if done correctly, the misery
would lead to excellence; most celebratory, most wretched, something incredible
with perception; or tragic vice, tragic sun, bleeding moon. With needs for joy,
happiness, maybe elation—comes fabrication, quickness of relation, often
imperceptible warmth and love: to have lived in presence; to have purchased a
dream; to have lived said dream out—swooshing through planets, complete in a
fairytale, removed from reality—and life is elevation, turnpikes, and swords.
With needs for joy, happiness, maybe elation—souls are outwitting essence,
outdoing reality.
