I dreamt of ink pens, measured by ambition. Casual breaths. Debatable paper.
And owl cries.
I now envision it.
Those palms to coals, those eyes to passions.
To imagine an escapade, sensual demons, to glean an image.
One glint, one nightmare, sitting in filth.
True callings. Truer depths. If to chisel an empire.
To adore a sightless person: personhood.
Years later, angry about it, yearning sky syrup;
harsher weather, named after valleys, walking into a shadow.
Unaltered redemption, facing perdition, asking for one memory.
I feel you; it’s different.
It means naught. It’s a serious ruse.
To chambers over there, reminiscing in gold.
And Love was many emotions, constantly aligning herself: Stand strong.
So much mud, to deceive a mirror, a man longing for lusts.
I tire of seeing it, some inner vision, to at once, such contradiction.
