Life is incognito, the arts in rains
Those ghosts.
Washed of sins, sinning nonetheless.
Or angered undercurrents, bluebells
Wheezing.
Over pudding, so deep a discussion
Rapid onslaughts.
To have noticed differences, a long
Path, alongside hallways, a palm
Meshed in gossamer.
The beauty of irony, seeing it
Delivers, made perfect by purging.
Trying to see with you. Trying to greet a falcon.
In dying there is a face. One inscrutable. A
Lasting outcry, piercing infinity. To have
Miracle passions, to make motion, to adore
By curse, by ache, by diamonds.
Upon a white stone, comes a new name
Wondering what it truly looks like.
To imagine—it took so much, if to claim
Union, too defensive for average souls.
Running into galaxies. Pardoned, would it
Come.
Body heat. Body scents. Raving
Over indifference.
Couldn’t redeem it. It will be as it has
Imprinted.
Most agreed.
Been into cosmetic cures. Knowing in
Part, hostility gives pulsation.
Music eyes, said a great deal, enough
To take heed.
