The
seas open to sails made oblivious with time passing. In the middle, by its
core, a flower, a daisy blossoms. Morbid reflection, identity held by strings,
most fiddling violins—another in essence, too much fire, a soul grabs,
scratches at hearts, mingling with souls. Ocean powers. City volume. Morning refreshments.
Staring at religion, some frame, ignoring warning signals. It never mattered. It
never meant much. Made overpowering, overwhelming, to hurt and bring joy; so
forgetful, like normality, to sway with emotion, to motion through feeling. Not
much regard for humiliation; thus, humiliated; soul and soft and supple flesh;
to have arrived to leave, with a certain ache inside. To capture a glimpse—to sail
through hurricanes—to survive, it feels unsettling—skies falling, sails
wrangled, waves higher those flames—like seven beats, nine diamonds, to return
where it started; buildings on quicksand, solid miracles, most tried hard
enough.
