Most things are unnecessary. To become life. A gem in
a jewel, a bag of deceit, made deliberate. A man
has a harder road. He must be a man. A woman has a
demanding road, she must drive straight. Blaming
is outdated. We discuss the inhumane. We see
characteristics, some are wonderful. I can’t
remember peace until, it became what now haunts the
ache, dear souls! I go casual. I lose sleep. I
imagine the new life. Years in, one heartbroken, to dedicate
it to ensuring it flows with indifference.
Hatred shares itself. Love should be selective. In dying
jazz, we arise in blues, connected through
bulbs and music the art killing the artists. I knew
you were opened, cracked at core, and he never
imagined it; you held me in contempt of person,
knowing I could see, coy, shattered, and made to
direct energies; falling of its science, giggles
muffled, hating him, disputing who should take his
blame. Eucalyptus and candledust. Memories and debate.
To have spoken a word, to have come so
close, in degrading morals, another is made to smile. I
don’t think it exists. I don’t think it matters.
Most seem to chase after dystopia—calling it majesty. I
give it little thought. By indifference the
sun is shining. I control nothing. In desire, I realize,
most desire an image, a musical, a culture, better, a
status. It has nothing to do with us. Something you
should know, and I know not what it is. By chase,
by eternity, by more lies. In loving, a soul must
become an inner machine, a caveat for self. By
weather the pain as weaved to look closely and die of
disbelief. To adore so dearly the one so
aggravated, desperate to make religion its ideal. In
aging, ruth grows.
