Too tired, Love. Too anxious to sleep. It wreaks havoc. Such excitement of the nightmare, surefire damages. I was a child in those weeks. I was an animal quite young. I devastated in parts the giants. Too warm for comfort, too cold for dancing, too righteous for love. How does a dying woman speak? Those years have passed; by future we design by presence. Too sexual for Pride, too captivating for culture, most capture silence with a chill. A step lower—traveling grounded dungeons, curious to it all. Chained to sacrifice. Abandoned to loses. Winning in some gray affection. I would change it all, in a heartbeat, to never, despite the charming skies. Territory tempos. Ghetto destinies. Flamboyant disputes. I was sickened at a time. I was middle bibles at a turn. I’ve no idea of explaining the present. One appeared, shoving pieces, by desert oasis. Too tired, Love. Too churned to rest. It hast to have a negative aftermath. I couldn’t imagine an altruistic phoenix. Some elements begin to soothe us, such desperate reality, to know for a fact, we die alone. In finding pieces, to undress arts, so close its disturbing. I was unvoiced, forced to adjust, in seeing it, knowing it can’t sustain its wings. A ghost in dregs, a slum full of riches, stricken, aloof, afflicted by the miseries of perfection.
