I sought complete innocence, such reckless assessment. In disputing anxiety, in winning angst, calcified by lifestyles. I was with pash, in some vein, asking for eternity, in a world priding dying. I was with error. Life is ethereal, concrete, miles into sunlight. We live worshiping each other; sheer devastation. I need not complain; in all of her getting, she resuscitated revenge. A soul wasn’t permitted to adore, nor worship, each step, so confusing, with fire strummed throughout cosmos, be it good or bad. (Mind swords.). Often, a feeling is deceptive. Often, we determine incorrectly. While correlation is necessarily up and close. Let it paint into skies, a picture. Let it be said, we’ve enjoyed some part of remaining internality. Let it be said the majesty is in its pictureless form. And Love would have accused a soul of treason save for tending by curse to a wound. I’ve been accustomed to dreams, walking inside portraits, accursed and refurbished. Those niceties; those harsher thoughts; to imagine many have fettered various caves. I was there in a vision, it wasn’t true. Such lying to self, in effort to soar, chasing a sage’s arrow. To have something pressing against me, each step forward, to have denounced myself, to have chased the ultimate value, with parts assailing emptiness. To have thought about it, some clever remark, to win a woman indebted to another. To trick my mind. To have celestial reasons, as to attach to heart, a devilish chain—those mathematical eyes, debating algorithms, feathers and features, if to charm what makes it back home. Some deep lie, as it brings joy, to sense days are forbidden from themselves. (The song comes into itself, a palm of religion, a deep and dark scar; waiting for exercise or exorcist or for brains to manifest what might bring ease of temperament, solace of soul. Those inside, pitching forks, churning in winds, to have lived while dying. Love will see herself, greeted by insouciance, gripping atmosphere, entering grayness.
