Rather be disconnected. It starts to ache. So many scythes. An anniversary just passed. Knowing no more until the skies blink; to have séance and courage; to mind-skate, to have pains, to laugh by concerns. In adoring ambition, in speaking wishes, to drift into sunshine. I never felt it like hearing it, a series of soldiers, crazed over existence. It felt good, when one was naïve, before a soul passed into light. Such nuance, such uphill battles, it was life to appear. Now a sentence comes with a tear. Just wondering as we do. It’s amazing how we thought it, to watch it, to wonder of what would manifest. I was sick for one, ravished inside, wondering why life hurts. It was a simple mistake, and it cost existence. Each year in memory. Each eon in blues. To debate if giving existence is cool for a cause. Damn it—existence is located, exhausted, the rest of life is to poetry. (Why should I be otherwise?) I have nothing to go on. I can imagine one in pain, fortified in miseries, on a line, sure to sip a beer. So, awake to it. Many taken pleasure in it. thrown and cursed. To tug at a soul, to give a soul full responsibility. So be it. No wonder a spirit says, It’s idle time. If not me, then someone else. So, it is, ghosts scudding, treasures in isolation.
