In a soul’s dungeon, its compass bleeds, finding joy
in rubescent eyes—the formula of its pity, souls exploding, parts and pieces—spread
about. In needing goodness, a soul tolerates injustice, for one brings both
qualities; (one never knows—in watery plains—what he will assimilate,
condition, and mistaken as fury)—the love of valleys, minds built on science,
wrestling with human instinct—pelted by freedom, face-to-face with actions,
deciding if beliefs are solid as diamond. What is a question in there? Soft
beginnings. Forever in mind. Conditioned by promise—of light, width, girth and
style; it isn’t altruistic, it isn’t not by freedom of enterprise, it’s
somewhere in limbo—the lights are flickering: crucial to insights, love made
fairer, with acceptance seeming Taoism. By ambience—to increase probability, by
freedom to choose otherwise.
