Dusky deserts, embedded in time, with it passing
gently. To pursue regardless, fixed by obsession, searching for disharmony. The
clouds are low, seasons are vexed, over power, over art, over sensation. The cry
is in a mirror, sullen battles, to redirect an existence. Comic tragedy,
scorched by reality, too concerned to endorse freedom; a tale told sorely,
holding with anxiety, trailing something imagined. If to soar through cosmos,
skies made metric, the horizon made tranquil. A soul with identity, a soul with
fury, remains a haunted soul. And Love was with wings, a fair hearted phoenix,
aside one flame; as dances topaz caves, beige lagoons, rivaling to walk away. To
need something, with all of existence, if to sail southern wiles. Dusty
meadows, a woman sneezing, passion floating in droves: a semi-curse, made
legit, founded in dark spaces.
