One more rhythm. One last fever. A soul is remembered
for lies.
How it ends, it was plush, sinning became wonderful. Sober cries.
I was laughing goodness, it shifted, sudden upon teary
eyes. And
Most disagree with my interpretation.
Emotion or logic or both?
Bleeding my style, clashing with innocence, proud to
assert many still believe in justice.
I mean to insist—only as persisted upon, wandering the
greatest beauty: creeks bearing gold, lakes wreaking pictures, forgiveness
starting to hurt.
Raised by one, keeping it secret, longing in between
sentences—if to create a new language.
I heard she knew saga,
sage, and drew art; we came to meet—she appeared as thunder, lightning, and a
novitiate kept quoting scripture.
How to explain just
tripping? Mountains seem symbolic; aesthetics seem purple; remembering one
seems too simplistic, with nothing to stand upon. The risk is too much fantasy.
I never asked. I was
insisting. Many angered—it should disturb.
One more attraction. Does
it end all attractions? This is the cage in humans.
To speak eternal—like skies
will never escape—with passion seeming arbitrary.
I would adore the process
of adoring.
Humans are faced by
temperaments.
