So stubborn, eating his sorcery, pausing, to imagine
what was done. Sheer redundancy—looking at her countenance, to piecemeal
satisfaction—with life so captivating—it dies. A fever in her eyes, so alone,
too crowded, the fullness of
emptiness: stranger words, made of cessation, so
appointed to the cycle. I was at ether, mentally isolated, cured in deceit; and
she came to life, and she laughed at skies, to the chagrin of a sinning
holiness. Made incomplete, chasing
the Ideal, found in identity. A soul sprawled before
God, with terrors at his heels, while nothing is in those winds.
Tell that it never dies, so uncured, breathing in
separation; if to dine on clouds, lobster and steak, fate and fiction—a
plan sketched in haste, so deep the cut, with pain skiing.
I
would if it was possible, once disappointed, once at
vice.
