Temperature aflame. Thoughts
dismissed. Selfsame pangs. Surreal excellence—gathered composure, unclaimed, an
artifact, a located object—if sin were ever at its peak. Sore piano, the violin
adored, to touch a guitar, a soul might dream again. We were younger. Songs
were on repeat. We collected each other. Like winning was suggested—mere consequence
of physicality, to assume ownership. Seeing beauty in its aftermath. Misery
became itself. Love appeared a foreign nature. How would one love what we saw,
knew, adored? Years in destroying self. Miracles seeming tired of us. The
feeling of a phoenix. And children were born. Something precious doesn’t depend
on humans. A little thankful for that. Those flowers act out. Pollen permeates
eternity. Souls’ sneeze, grab a hanky, and blow violently. A casual goodbye. An
endless greeting. Many make color look sophisticated. It dances differently. Never the
same! Asking more questions. Infinity doesn’t welcome me. Soul for spirit the
welkin cymbal. Seeing an image, wrapped in prayer, all day with some. By and
by, recollecting each drumbeat, every drumkit, forbidden inside. Too much for
kingdoms. Too irregular. Like loving is illegal.
