Certain joy in a second outlined by angst.
Treehouse passions; apples falling; deep symbolic fevers.
I was thinking of you, such beauty, so great to a man, so tender to a scar, to have progeny.
Prophetic pains, musical happiness, humans are slung between feelings.
It takes so much to love you; what have I to sin?
Simplicity is sanity; she hides in there, all eyes watching her performance, all men asking his name.
Icy hills. Snowflake arcs. God might vanish.
To climb into self, sitting upon a branch, hearing sullen silence.
Sprouting upon bass, intricate math, agricultural miseries; faced by you, a sudden interior dance, wrath of a maddening woman.
Running to scars, aggravated by truths, needing her nonetheless.
The seas soaring, rain punished, loving what was never us.
To have excellence, charged and sinning, pictures in paint; oh’ symmetrical pash, desire screaming, like hell was raining cotton.
