Born to life, not quite living, breathing nonetheless. To enter consciousness, where a soul is aware of it. Songs sacrificed, love by affection, a feeling, while unprepared, irresponsible, dreaming of excellence, unable to prune the garden. Sudden shifts, violent skies, seismic beliefs; such rendered faith, so cataclysmic, dangling from metaphor. I was watching. I was seeing. Not quite able to secern, nor discern between symbols. Life as it appears. Realizing a forked tongue. To sense ideals, as introduced, to learn there’s a deficit. One becomes difficult with reflection: always pressing for perfection, worth as given, deep seas by blues; to those that escaped, to minds permeated by grace, to have peace, to know beauty. It may adore its Love; one might die in pledges; one might try harder.
