A soul fights to make light—the wars as cadence, as
symphony; long-lasting forces, a casual ache, a prominent pain, if to lay a
portion down. An orchestra for woes, a stadium for triumphs, much is left
unsaid: spaces we win, loses we avoid, beauty of opera. To coach sorrows, to
expect misfortune, if prepared for adversity—if possible, if permissible, at
many wars daily; fully functioning faculties, troubles, notwithstanding—as it
seems designed. Many to get along, few to claim esoteria, nothing can be
uttered—most elements can be ignited, cosmic concern. To adore privilege, to
discover solution, else to settle, for it shall be sameness. Petals speak.
Asphalt is intolerant. Crevices make a path for ants, so small, made diligent.
Art is platform. Many wrestled, tussled,
struck hard and functioning at level. Leaves made of poetry, veins filled with
terrors, birds watching, unaware of nightmares. Coming close, affected, losing fears. To
build paradise—trying to supply heaven—might not be correct; trying to create
longevity, give life to those suffering, extending resources, might be
feasible.
