The ghosts are leaking, torn and devastated. Each language so centered on ghosts. Most indecent memories, seated in pictures, the deaths are reincarnation. And adoring is impossible, bleeding Jesus, trying to put faith in humans—so great a disappointment. I sense the ethicist, a debate with gods, striving towards excellence—the future is half full. Nevermore the doubts, a moralist and her rules, to determine others are abiding. If given a choice, one might surrender to chi, damaged inside, longing for one creature—the blood we drip. Plus, gods were listening, disputing facts, so torn and apologetic. Indeed, I wish to love like angels, fully aware of mistakes, searching the goodness in souls. With terrors, with appetites, suppressing all of atmosphere, in order to adore eternity. Why must we lie? What does it do? It beefs up tumors. Can humans be trusted? The answer is yes, the answer is no. A lucky seven, a crapshoot, amongst mongoose and cobras. Indeed, too saddening, would rather unknowingness, if and only if that were true. Too much misery. Too much pain. Many are doing right, correctly, indeed, to something else. I was smitten, gaming in arts, loving the way she smiled. I was in love, angered not to see her, gifted with an oily tongue. So coy, such a lovely flower, in desperate need for words. We would if it was true. We’d die an unlikely passion, thrown into mischief, so delicate a scar. To have become this person. Many might argue, it was one person. Nay, it was patterns in over five persons. But Love was beautiful, and Love would cry, and Love desired a father. Some issue we never speak to, some riddle we fathom, if to feel like protecting her. A dear and dire issue, to imagine such expectation, to die in portraits.
