We broke silence, anxious in traffic, our parents, those messages, our terrors. A linchpin made of platinum, a soul made of geranium, spirits riding pendulums—habitual winds, dizziness, palatial ambitions.
Remaining by course, sacred as death, tombs aside caskets. The face with muscles, the pain with leniency, such as it would live. Catlike cries, drifting dogwood, abused tendencies, to craft survival, lasting as it dies, a fret in bones, pure deception of self. To taste it. To envelope it. To feel guilty. Most have a life. Most never debate it. God gave us a conscience. Even a subtle chide runs into deepness. To have adored it, to walk away from it, it seems unlikely. Nevertheless, Love is close to skies, a flower upon a cloud, famished for perfections. So many graves, such as caves in psyches, a bell as it rung, and no one heard it. A clutch filled with angst, and no one knew it. Or terrified, all to loneness, confronted by an attack. When a body turns against its senses. Nor abated—this life—a brain steady at the helm. Total silence.
What was it? The trauma of the artist. I can’t imagine neither dying nor living forever. What are we fighting for? “Length of treasures.” Immortality? “Yes!”
A thread permeates us, a loving affects us, with stillness feeling alone; it was said, a soul hungers for closeness, its first mother, its stern father, drifting through galaxies, until it finds closure, thus, even when loved, adored, it feels a sort of emptiness.
