I recall your beauty, your voice, made mellifluous. I heard
they seek iambic, not straight liquid, plurality of attentions. Today is off.
Pain is camouflaged. With memories seeming like indemnity. To haunt a person.
You sound outstanding. I was desire to see Angelica. When deaths seep in,
courage is waning, you bring a soul to advantages. I speak to air. No one is
listening. By despair of the last Existentialist. I was heavy in desire at a
soul—its body, filled with lazy parts, anxiety arts, probed to confess in
deaths. How have arts ruled? What makes a man? I was with fancy and angst in
tending to a soul, a man is his last performance. Another watches, discerns
magic, lurking inside a mind semi-discouraged; by angst of petals, by poison in
sin, athirst with color and rainbows. An old name appeared, self-same person,
questioned sexuality, with pain displaying a root in game; many rabid souls,
innocence in escapes, feelings in miseries; a feud in me, a legacy in her, made
to play pretend like demons; and over yonder, a man touched my diamond, it was
her essence, her withdraw, her need for one killing earth to get near; in
truth, rain, and sunshine, each should be alert, for time is leery, art is
sinning, and Love needs pain.
