Love
is an omen-angel, flooded with fury, fierce at survival. Tales told about
terrors, days running into caves, the fire of the eyes. Many are horrible. Many
are fortuitous. Many will aid for a price. Some unsaid source, as the typing
begins, some enchantress’ violin. The bass of intelligence, the saxophone for
Lisa, the pains in droves for disorders. Loving art, finding aesthetic in
humans, destroyed by my nonchalance. Emotion downstream, intense feelings,
tetras contrast and contradiction; affected by what you’re unwilling to
suggest, by what you’re willing to say, in general, by each element inside of
you. Hearing the missing parts—eating the hidden skies—treading the forbidden
earth; to dine on mica, palming granite, losing miseries in topaz; a soul with
falling wings, the treasure of the terrors, by the essence of the human ghosts.
So much given to keeping silence, so little given in sharing voices, rather,
hide it from the mirror.
