If the mirror is intense, it laughs, dig cleats into
skies. Oh Gothic Charm, seduced and went berserk, sure fury into a scandal. Mental
repeats. Northern dialogue. To swear mystic means misery in parts; to assert
she knows psyches … a dying soul might fathom mercy. I was wandering. I saw a scenario.
It was indicative of love. The lake is so wet, sure eager, not many are on the
ship. A grand belief, misspelling identity, close to asking why the spell if
never to entertain its message? I long for majesty. I churn for ingredients. The
flicker is in its flame, Love is aesthetic, gifted, most nun-like, a seductress
of woes. To have labyrinth, to eat at mazes, to enter such desperation,
shouting in ecstasy. I should’ve lied when asked, “Who is the thief in his
mirror?” Bugging the dynasty, life has giggles, Love was all a soul would
enflame; sad eyes, or determined to silence eyes, gutted and bleeding if but to
seduce the fever. Torn in halves, never with excellence, desiring perfection—some
aloof pain, agonizing in pleasures, to realize happiness comes to disappoint:
methodologies, epistemology, knowing means I know nothing—the frame one gives,
binoculars, sedition, frowns, such ecstatic passion: a fool for roses.
