The cliché is—it gets easier; indeed, it travels deeper. And loving is a reason to breathe, if two carry each other, if it becomes intimate. I can sense one in passing, having trespassed, life becomes a longer venture. A lady shared a part of her struggle. It was frightening. Another keeps it tacit, such pandemonium, a titillating sensation. A woman was experiencing life. A soul was at her innocence. She desired to keep him appeased. Upon a glimpse, I saw what others ignore. One would call me nosy. I’d agree.
Such as life is pathologies; we forget the struggle is universal. By condition, by existence.
I forget others are able to speak. I forget hearing is ubiquitous. I exaggerate most are running.
Surreality of dreams. Sacredity of symbols. Close enough to feel uncertain.
Spatial with rules. Lavish upon a scar. Pushing and molding clay.
Certain pottery. Devastating wishes. Upon an image one illusion too afar.
To have needed what one could give; adjudged as unruly. With so much of life seeming gray.
I feel the snowbird, so gelid, in fact, too cold to reach.
When I knew I’d love, I was intense and shallow.
