I’ve said too much. I sense it hurts: being holy is critical.
By marooned instincts—to shadow a beginning.
I imagine it’s beautiful: I beg a vision.
Wanted to be a friend: the benefit of anxieties.
To dream and feel horrible; to love and feel unrequited.
If an energy approaches, and it is not reproached, let it be gentle.
Many desire desire, repudiate lust, if to remain holy, if to live by fusion.
Life is intricate: she speaks forbidden languages, she pushes souls; if sanctified, if holy, upon a cross, to have adored in dying, the love we so departed.
Certain sweetness; deeper resonance; altruistic denial.
I come to say a little, behaving as instructed, every increment is neat, even cute.
If two come into eternity, to know every increment of life, indeed, they grow into humans.
I have averted loving, in exchange for seeing, what good is it to love one we cannot see (in totality)?
Sweet Purple Rain if to sense glory, if to touch sewage; smells and odors, life and deaths, autumn and spring. Never another in communion, if a fiat exclaimed—with living breathing into a curse; too wild to make sense, angst and desert, around sequences and denying life.
