The soul sounds depressed, rabid anxieties. And adoring has been difficult. And ignoring sub-cosmos has been hellish.
I was never as close as delusion. I was never so far as reality.
Rivers & rafts. Oaken scars. Ocean beginnings.
I was perception; you were art. It seems unimportant.
Ontic waves; such madness with Love.
Was it not delicate, aesthetic fire, enraged ice?
So much caution; we fortify motion, concerned, constructed by yesteryear.
Life becomes intentional, echoes &
dungeons, polite insignificance. And Love knows naught; and Angst is intelligent.
I was too young to see, too wise to know, and too developed to fawn.
Such surrendering to devastation.
