The mind meditated on tales; living us, like sickness, sunshine weeping, dreams ignoring reality. I was young when it happened, some type of fire, senses ordained to sail; by sullen aches, by surrender, framed it seems in dangers—the beauty of one slipping away, the dread of what he couldn’t possess, flamed in cultures, arranged by deaths. Days are with you. A soul ponders dearth, sunrise, battles, neglect, & moon rise. Never thought it this way, feeling detached from control, some spell as it becomes energy. I rethink you weekly, nay, daily, with nothing there to latch to; most uncanny—to live hells deliberately, in depth to sing some song in print; the gates, Love, the damning gates; it was psychical, it was noetic, the fire—it would stream into cosmos; like roaming scriptures, running through psalms, some incredible nonchalance. I would say, I love you: it feels like intrusion, all the properties, never the obsession. Each tear in there, it becomes a flower, a name trickles like rain, I ignore it, it presses to intend its agenda. I imagine living this way: never to touch, never to crave such, with one inside wreaking havoc, sickened in pain, as it becomes strength. I adored in haste, hurdles seemed shallow, I imagine it would never become freedom of angst—the fierce years, the blood leaking, to hold one, and a thought strikes with vengeance—like a sick ass game. What is poetry? The lines blur. To rethink it: your eyes when meditated; your pain when seeping out, breaking seams, long into the skies; or, your angst, in a moment, so conscious of self. I was horseback in spirit, a headless soul, looking, blinded, wondering your end result; to have immortality, to collapse in depth, sunlit, dazzling, in love with being worshiped. Some type of identity. To have a good ribbing, to never laugh, to at best, pine in deepness, denied internally, detached from one at the end of the couch. To have scent, power, to feel sorrow, to die, to love the deaths, to write a masterpiece.
