Easy arts fly by winds, like kitsch, like a wafting kiss.
To imagine fears for love, to imagine it could summer time, founded upon a volt.
The compound giggles, we might celebrate.
Hoping upon irony, satire kicking goads.
So confused over it, like a damn fool.
I was absent motion, to catch a chill, Love unveiled—
attached until it gets better.
I imagine a book, highly esteemed, a new, beneficial friend.
On some sky, life & roses.
To forget me. To fly unto heaven.
I wish it. May it happen. One worthy.
“Give it to God.”
Perception. Does it change? Indeed, it must.
I thought about you, so sick of holiness … needing certain treatment. What is it about being holy? Some die for it. Some refute its life. Others run from it … if but a little … if but a fantastic lover. I alter perception. I chide myself. I flog my spirit. I hear it, sheer mesmerism.
You strike through galaxies, seated with a book.
There’s something taking place, I fathom why it becomes sensuous.
It’s written: spirituality is alike to sexuality.
You chance on a cave. You peek in. You keep in contact.
