Losing was pivotal,
redesigning perception, gripping daylight, forfeiting redundancy, at art made
personal. I would adore privilege, patient to persevere, so adroit, at
agency—so great its loss; filthy cleanness, most appropriate to itself, asking
through its war—angelic sacrifice, aged sullenness, certain to melt in
compassion—trying to hold strength. Aesthetic, so human. Pain, so glamourous.
Bumps, miseries, a dirty desert: clumps of traits, treasures in terrors,
languishing over love.
A man has so much, looking
for more, a woman is likewise; so designed to need, yearn, glisten, glossy,
action in airs, music, mire, life and indecency.
It takes control of men. It worries women. It seems
chaotic unto itself.
By fret of its dynasty, decided as dreaded, while it
becomes dormant—another sadness.
So great an aura—an eagle with falcon eyes, physicality
seems important, but a shallow soul.
Certain to adore again, dispelling ideals, to have cared
unto hurting.
