Nothing closer to reality. To notice a dying petal. Framed
in arts, eating crafts, amazed by roses.
Same song.
Most will perish unfree.
Loving is unsound. To dwell where pain is rawness.
Most glasses have debris.
To imagine some journey as fraught by beginnings the
passion you exude: It must hurt.
By labyrinth and raspberries, fretting it was unreal,
to have given existence.
A fast rapport, crawling through crevice, at a spirit
bank: A parting déjàvu.
To sense living, to art what you give, to immortalize
the unnamed.
Sweet mortality;
to have existence by winded maze;
last to have discovered humans.
