I
might try harder, secure in negotiations, plainly receiving a steady
embarrassment. Closing insides, opening maneuvering, feeling a shortage;
boiling feelings, cold emotions, believing in balance. The fire of osmosis,
reamed in parts, trying to reface and move fiercely. So sweet the dialogue,
becoming closer, forgiving human weakness. I look at moments, to imagine what
others give, to fight inside over what we do—the battle of its cavalry. By debt
when its beautiful, to sense a conscious human, to fret a feeling, unable to
spot its source—the mystery of the souls. A thief put on a collar. A harlot
became a perfect woman. A thug became a deacon. Trials of the redeemed, so
close to exists, forbidden inside. Some type of soulprint, dice thrown further,
to love an outcome—those ruby red eyes, talking to make it, especially, with sunshine.
A grown man shedding rivers, a grown woman flipping into space, an elderly lady
still feeling youth. The captive vines, cherry blossoms and flame, to be
adored, to adore the adoring, to adore in return. The needing to survive, to
become an intricate excellence, more than the worth of strangers. So indecent
the proposal, so square the splendor, filled with pathos. Lifting a
soul, navy blue beauty, army green hopes, deep in the interior. Like a
leprechaun appeared, like mystery unveiled, like art became a physical body.
The dream of slow remedy; prayers on the bookcase; sitting, looking, debating
those habits, an opus in something made utility. The laughing stock, the town
is giggling, with spirit raking in blessings—the inner pith, a drink to
understand, a soul endures his hands.
