The behavior a soul will ignore—a ritual
to breathe—art for paining, therapy for functionality. Trying more to appear to
self, or another, caved into infinity. It seems slow paced, upon a volt,
wattage, for it aches to feel alone. Days with strangers. Frames with ambition.
Touching with logic. The keys are upon tables; dynasty of an altar; horns,
symbols, ploughs, and sickles. Into a garden, plush with fruits, greenery in
traumas—the years as they retract, love is relaxed, patient, failing its
station, forfeiting its ideals. I think about people, walking by, wandering as
we do; to decide in an instance, what we’d like to exist for, privileged in a
jar, an anticipation, to ask many questions. Maybe a sincere tale, maybe a
metaphor, a simile, maybe sirens at seas; maybe love was meant for souls,
something exclusive, requiring maturity, whelming passion, to endure centuries
into literature. Marching to meddle—should to silence, a mug of madness. Just
existence aside its existential, paused for compassions, seized by the greatest
souls. Maybe multiplying is happiness, not as we imagine it, nevertheless,
fulfillment. The things a soul shall see, at a helm, tugging a wheel, trying to
forget some nature in souls. Alas, connected without permission, things will do
to sew our presence.
