Maybe too critical, despite self, neat cynicism—bleak philosophy,
a hardened heart, worshiping ideals, bled of the lasting cries. Cattle
dispersed, the wolves read asceticism, just one in a dream. I witness it. I long
to remove facts. We nurture to instruct if to guide away—from suffering arts,
existential numbness, too casual the excitements. It was never easy until it
was. A whole life on spontaneity. I feel in part a nihilist. Not many wish to
deal with that, despite, the probability. And looking at legs, calves, faces,
hearing beliefs, nurturing a private desire, hoping for both holy and threatening.
To need certainty, the human dilemma, refusing to accept the unknowing reality.
Over yonder, upon a miracle, I assert he adores you. Close to arc, at
stability, I value her assertion, unwavering, moving quickly, many agree,
sensing darkness becomes intimacy.
