I keep it innocent. I fret an assertion. You have wit—mystery.
I’m parched for discussion. You exist with schism. You sing silence. I was with
truth, a hurting ocean, to keep fact—nothing tangible, weighed on scales, do we
possess, maybe some fantastical obsession. I remember a divisive weaving, an
insidious nature, claiming, asserting an ethic compass, an upper edifice, with
most failing their dreams. I remember a nervous mystic, to presume most are
with angst, performing, attitudinal, trusting and pessimistic. I never met you;
I saw you; you advertised characteristics, you shared inconsistencies,
convictions. If I may—years suffocate ideals, strengthening bonds, maybe
something was misidentified. I remember you said a fiat concerning being
selfish: to till science, to celebrate one-sidedness. Much calamity upon a
manic memory: skinless sculptures. I imagine more, must be missing life, dedicated
to contemplative existence, as beauty grows into sophistication. No longer as
shy, knowing it’d be explosive, confrontational, major disputes, racial
concerns. If I may—to touch imperceptibility, to engulf anesthesia, dealing
with a powerhouse. If I may—do you still fly, is art pivotal, are you still
cautious? Some become fruitful, daring, needing life, incautious at times,
forced to knees, repenting the trauma. You relish in reenacting, majorly
mature, familiar with yearning.
