To utter kindness, uncharmed by enmity, feelings in a
second, tides and waves. To honor
roses, thorns embedded in flesh, the neighbors watch. Much unrivaled
maintenance. More to tulips in fields, traipsing like adolescents—the Olympians’
story. Most sing a solo song, if to
share a majestic wind, if but to spin mystic jamesias. Unrelenting mists, permanent heart chakras,
the world is sweet and delicate irony. The ultimate fight, the last hundred
years, media has been ambivalent with color.
Writing to get free is a conundrum, for writing bonds souls, an ultimate
yoke; sore in kindness, alert in frequency, at nature in sense of words driven;
the last welcoming, aside gardenias and willows, to dream about one miracle.
Time is aggressive—the young grow wise, the older
become immortal; some silent begonia, tectonic orbs, spatial divisions; to hope
and live, fighting a 6-minute craving, having to rethink the last inclination,
as sung into triumph.
A person is adored by a stranger. They love as best
they believe. They have life in each other.
Maybe love is overthought. Maybe there aren’t
demarcations. Maybe true love is a contradiction of existence.
