I haven’t been the same, a longer road, a lot to
discuss. Heaven seems far off, aloof at intervals, pushing one to try harder;
like athletes, it’s never enough, & then, they retire.
I never knew her, nor studied her, to have missed some
illusion.
Time was invested, it had its purpose, in something
delusional, came a story, a saga, if souls would begin.
I haven’t a clue to it, adjusted, & shall again.
I see her typing, either falsifying happiness, or
enjoying daylight.
I see myself listening inside, digesting cosmos,
eating universality; such complex pictures, loud xylophones, silent clarinets.
I could’ve on some level, often, it doesn’t matter how
we respond.
With sarcasm carries hurt, truth, neglect & dice.
In never adoring her, I lost self, I disowned
happiness.
Sky particles. Indecent luxuries. Decadent delights.
Smothered comforts—long mental lines, hard to falsify
happiness. Duvet wrapped, passions
astray, adoring what I’ve not met.
In trying to unstress self, pressure arose, palming
delicate times.
In ignoring reality, slopes slipped, inevitable sun
whispers.
Captured in a matrix, polishing moon rise, hesitant
concerning wonder. I grabbed belief
in order to survive, I made it through high tides, I begin to question what
sustained me—it seems human.
Love is many realities, several ghosts, disguised by
innocence. I never approach with
wants, nor offer sunshine, on a colder morning. Some backstory, deeper in woods, flaming as
we chance.
