Be it
fantasy the most beautiful, as if gorgeous means innocence. Bodies fraught by
art, ink dripping sanity, maybe a manic tattoo; laughing at me, trying harder,
if more acceptance—the Great Myth.
Each
hour emotion dries.
Discontent
is an Intelligence.
Photos
on high. Faced by immediacy. Forced to make a lasting decision.
By pain to enhance, fever and
elegance, fervor and ingredients. If to refocus, upon a petal, to see beauty,
independent of the suffering—not because of the suffering.
Wanting is temporary. Needing is
eternal. I want to need her.
One plays piano, strikes heaven on
the violin, becomes romance on the cello; such cursed souls, frantic over
fantasy, as if deficit means trustworthy.
So much outstanding beauty, ignoring
variety, pledged to exist; a cured soul is an absent soul, most realize cures
are temporary—else, living has halted.
Needing spirit, to delve into
spirit, asking for what never satisfies.
