Ethical dove—soundness complete, never to lose
composure—mystic delivery, womb sealed, stomach chopped, and design has a name
on it. Ontological wilderness, teleological woman, I see sin differently. I was
older in deliberation, a whiff of excellence, measuring insensitivity. Told it
would run damages, ruined in transgression, a soul might adore iniquity—begging
integrity, pausing to share it, laughing like a dumb person—cursing, cursed,
like it doesn’t get better, like deserving a short novel. More ecclesiology—more
Passion—mixing tenets, eclectic style, a lot to catch up on. Impure mesmerism,
made satisfying, a soul will give for certainty—to dream a person, to know a
soul, out of sight and behaving like under surveillance; a deep secret, a dear
uneasiness, a reason to grow numb … and more will love her.
