I fate to broach a topic, knowing it
makes us nerves, nevertheless, if it
does exist, and I disbelieve, I don’t
need to miss out on love. Love is lust,
sincerity, pain, celebration,
activity. I drift to music,
sullen and softer pearls, diamonds and rings
in thousand-year-old trees; whatever it
seals, whatever it reveals, eating a
simple meal, asserting the greatest
future—mirrors become dual, minds seem
plural, to think of self, is to think of
others. By a
book to assert an
afflatus, singing from soul, moving
into motion, Love agonizing
over possibility, probable
reality, too young when it begun;
aircraft passion, to make essence, known for
playing tetras … vine of its castle,
Avila mysticism, those palms so
close to piercing me.
To touch a topic, saying enough, with
souls yearning for comfort—a tear by
treasure those waves in reason sweet
unbelief until its evident
—beauty in a decision, to live in
parts, darkness present, light made confusion.
