The death of providence, the clause to love again, thus, the warrant
to survive; a made-man, a sealed woman, the feeling of the cannibals. Too much
to sustain—too dreary the reality, to imagine how far we’ve come; the fire in
water, the boiling skies, the first baptism. As walking in path, the cage of obedience,
the pain in restrictions; to love like losing, the sheer desperation, so
pleased to grovel, to beg, to ask for eternal humiliation—for I love like
winning, it must change, the gravel in the bottle, the release in the masturbation.
If seeing correctly, Love is a tornado, afraid of something too vital to control.
Made to be loud, eating pomegranates, mixed with clear toxics; the war of the
roses, poached from angels, drenched in demons, so crossed, a living paradox;
to cast a spell, for the good of life, consumed by the mistake taking its root.
Calming the souls in us, thus, the volume in the climax, so much to only
operate for one woman.
