I fret the soul must undergo its frustration. A soft tapping. A piano’s somberness. A faint understanding. Walking by instrumental—caged in essence—feuding with an invisible island. To notice fairness dies, rapture consumes, to pride self on a muteness to it all. Deepness of soul, like a heart-phantom, some level of interaction ever unmeasured. A soul watches its carcass. It sees it dying. (With an audience experiencing another’s soul.) Some matter of gray ocean, skies filled with permanence, earth seeming to pass away. I fret the soul must undergo its frustration. A soft rapping. A banshee in chains. A monstrous sensitivity. In making life an art, to regain some control, wrestling with obstinate weather. By an insistent agony, aesthetic in its charms, to have adored in some vision, as never to have lived. And I was once a lad, gazing at gallicas, unfettered in imagination, longing for beauty—as determined by innocence: Love would say my name, so young we were, it felt alluring, captivating, to have thoughts made of pearls, to have feelings made of diamonds, to insist upon the notion of love. I’m frantic into a future colored by suspicion. I missed out on petals, trains, wasting time, if to seize by rites—those with casual reaching, never quite fulfill lights, and I fret the soul must undergo its frustration.
