It isn’t love, while it’s more the love, watching
spirit, as it grows wildly. And a lady in the shadows, seeing it all, wondering
what he’s done now. Those lines are thin, the lakes are casual, fate needs
itself. So great its wilderness. So threatened by itself. So loose in its
design. Fate, as crystalized, topaz minerals, gold and ghosts, forever in disfavor,
nothing to mix, pure reality, made evil.
If a soul tries, the soul is being controlling. What
have we to see?
So Beleaguered so Baffled, It’s made easier. While
necessary to trick one’s mind. Else, greater winters, greater emphases on dust,
the grit of matter is life.
Into a mental dimension, a bungalow, filled with false
glamour—what has reality to offer? Stability. Pain. Art.
