To the brains, Love. An angry council. Too much to suppress. Too little to die. How in God the loses?
I never agree with myself. I push pass impetuosity. The rain keeps falling.
If loving you means I must chew disgrace, then I’ll live crooked, asking for a straight line.
I envision a tribunal, a gut bleeding, with you sitting at head table.
Dusty tenets; collaborative excitement, to touch in passion a palatial curse.
It fumbles, Life! nothing to win; losing like normality.
And Love is dishonest, and it churns when honest, what in life does a man require?
Such parentheses; such aesthetics; Love is sheer electricity.
So quiet about it. All eyes watching. A man hopes to sustain a miracle.
During a discussion, to locate an emerald, afraid it might come back to cut.
And Love has been in motion, a volt for reason, to imagine one soul might become existence.
Too much, Love; it feels heinous, Love; to agree and die.
I never agree with myself.
I passion into oblivion.
If to find self, a gut bleeding, falling into a face full of vomit.
Too much to assert love; too little to say, love; at a creature, a mare, a magician, how in hell to satiate Love?
With damages, with brains broken, crawling like snails, by six to the grave.
