A flattered man is a blind man. A figurine in spirit, a pain to self, too many abstract thoughts.
I was enlove, it felt like hell, to desire what never accepts you.
Back to trenches, rebuilt, it still whispers.
Like loving what never gets closer, just enough to continue adoring, just enough to addle brains.
I was influenced by you, a dream in you, a miracle to survive you.
When you died, it was hell, no one understood.
And when she thought in me, like a scream, to have sinned by calling upon holiness.
If one is innocent, as opposed to a bastille, to have success in matrimony—just a small feat.
I was enlove, I was acrobatic, I was influenced.
What happened?
So depleted, so agile, so sullen.
To explain it without saying it, to need you without claiming you;
so offensive, senses grieving, to build upon a star—jumping in space, tribal lessons, revving parts of us.
(On a bad day, I feel it, so low, dragging us, flooring us, just imagine what it becomes.)
(On a good day, like Jesus came, flowing in sequences, heart reverberating, smaller vibrations, a sudden volt, to know—it was a beautiful day.)
I was angry—it seemed a spell, so removed from myself;
to ask a vital question, to sing a sceptic song, so secluded, so close, too far to reach.
It was never precious, it was ever good, to become so bad, to lie to myself.
Too wild those years. Too flushed—raw emotion, to hate what gives life.
Like a running man, an escaping woman, to realize—it was ever imagination, it wasn’t real, so dearly affected, some fretting curse!
We know what was done, so esoteric, a blind man calls us a damned creation.
