Such is imaginary. It can’t exist. It’s too metaphysical.
The love of the error, the error of the mistake, the mistake as the building
blocks. So sardonic to wish you success. So bold as to say it can’t occur. And so
ironic one speaks to irregularities. One listens to complaints, vowing to hear,
debating where it will go. An animal!
This is what it comes to, not a human, an animal!
But I feel and I love, and life can be tender and
adoring you makes sunshine; so consequential, the burden of the soul, to need
affection, to battle shadows—a glowing smile, an immortal kiss, only meant for
a select few—the hope of the fruits, the wage of the faith, abiding by dreams
and visions and passion.
Made into spirits, looking becomes a privilege, the
way you disappear; the volume of an aura, those looking into one’s countenance,
the fight for the arc.
