Nothing is totality; feeling utter grayness; it’s not her.
Listening to Irene, save for inner thoughts; aching an ultimate island, sensing a third dimension.
And color keeps morphing, such surreal dynasties, in spite of intestinal thoughts.
Upheaval climbing; deeper beliefs.
It’s hard when easy, difficult peaks.
Seized by naivety. Searching for completion. Damned by estrangement.
What I love will flee away. What I desire isn’t human.
In being human, the desire is beyond our capacity.
And all are concerned with freedom—its magnitude, breadth, width, its uneasiness, its un-reaching promise.
Depriving its arts, filled with fury, disputed as heresy.
I’ve a figment of images, watching an unspoken science, feeling tension as it rises.
No one said I’ve completion, fueled by ideals.
No one said it wasn’t debatable.
I never said these things.
