We might into discussion, arriving in dialogue,
sustaining wilderness—caged in personality, rivaling mirrors. True to his
curse, vibrant in mind, adrift in spirit. To trespass is to transgress, some
measure of imposition, some paradox, a sky of catacombs. When walls fall, when
people decide on realities, negotiating with conscience—it meant so little,
emotion rules, under a guise called, intelligence. We might into discussion,
meeting existence, refilming narratives, eating lamb. We might not, with
weather rushing in, serenading holiness, feeling awkward.
A longer road. Truth is what souls will. There’re
reasons to discount convictions.
True to her curse, radiant in mind, aloft in soul,
sunlit in spirit. It never correlated. To look upon another, to adjudge his
intestines, with him, silently disputing true worth.
Mulberry pie, mango aroma, treading through
shrubberies. So much to give when hurting—so little examined when cheerful.
Twigs
wires—
delicate essence, perpetual agitation, to have
insights, to exploit souls dying.
