Barriers to solace—sore machination—wisdom has
hatchets; morbid joys, hankering soul, gifted at agitating spirits. Social outcasts,
an entire culture, to have become mystery—those roses bled, excited over
possibly hurting—the myth of its cello; unequal skies, flushed like a heart
attack, to whisper to self, “I’ve redeemed silence.” Sorrows
become joyful, happiness has strength, careful to at
least notice perceptibility; seasons of nonchalance, needing to cleanse soul,
annoyed science is fragile. In its chase, it proved a deficit. Losing to find
numen, to realize art, to make portraits of esoteria. Deep anticipation, a
spirit to her life, her child, her spouse … with purpose of dreams, an
actress and audience, knees to floor, palms to rug,
screams echoing throughout the pathways; to hate is difficult, it may come
seemingly, as it rots in pith a gut. Those scars, such dear sanctuary, a
shelter in clouds, reading social passions; to love with malice, to harm and
feel unrequited, with fierce ferocity chasing the gates.
