Ain’t much in sameness, most things change.
To locate it, such richness, for we know, ain’t much love in the city.
In the county line, different packaging. I owe devotion.
It’s both good and bad, a tender fact, souls must die;
many dials, melodic xylophones, trying to escape it, treasured by silence.
It’s what it became; memories scribbled presently, futuristic past tense; paws in mud, gnawing existence, curious to a gripping claw; five findings, six senses, seven for perfection, it becomes a nine, returning to itself.
Those walls built around a room, a gem as ink, a desk as challenging, a bed devoid of sheets, a filthy pillowcase—a need for an overhaul.
Ain’t much in sameness, life is flux, equality has similar training.
An inner edifice, a centered city, casual ways to say—it churns.
Tadpoles become frogs, reptiles become vicious, mammals are underestimated: not by science. Religiosity is another mindset.
To enter a session in time, asked to reveal essence, too familiar to feel exclusive, most of life is plural; such fluvial pains, such pluvial vines, one ball of thunder.
Ain’t much love in towns; dear existence, fraught by terrors, to give such insights, to search for an entrance, to stand as judge and jury.
And it seems strange, connecting to another human.
