I have a saga in history. I have a soul soaring into destiny.
If I said, I see into a space where all is abysmal, one would tell me to stop looking there.
A missive was written during times of turmoil; it became immortal.
I stopped lusting for you. I tried to see you in reality. I found we have something in common. I now understand something, life is difficult in return for thoughts. If I think it, I might be able to attain it. This is cool upon a thought; some persons are unreachable.
Essence kills softly. I try to ignore undulations, even undercurrents, like passing underbrush; to no avail; souls speak spirits.
I hope it reaches, as it presumes, eyes into a river, upon a koan.
It was easy to see it aches; it was hard to seduce a solution; most desolate cities, interior islands, to feel content upon an emotion, rare, but true.
Indeed, to have said so little—in saying too much, such writhing innocence, inverted realities, susurrous undertones, ingratiating realms of deaths.
It will live on as a study, if to prophesy.
