Laughter has odor. Silence has an acorn. Loving must
remain innocent. So removed from mirrors, never sealing as it derives, by cliff
to leap into meaning. Living is rarely perfect, one would be shallow, mediocre,
to discount tragedy, blankness, made numb, desiring unity—of expression,
reception, miracle and depth. Facing each other. Believing in value. Striving for
arête. Can’t quiet indifference, as it becomes me, sensing mirrors, treasuring
parts of the rubber bands. Couldn’t fathom how it becomes; couldn’t predict
shadows; one made insecure due to dearth of character, must unwind, must dream,
swallowing songs, mind on repeat, accustomed to thinking about souls. What to
scream, at impassivity, at no one there? The room is street colored—the design
is on record—so easy to walk away … to believe in nothingness, a facial smile,
it loses its sting.
