I think to you to find peace. I venture to believe things are ideal.
But using your spirit is wrong.
I will brave the weather.
At each turn—my entire life—dealing with something: I don’t enjoy self.
Most loving life, the best of everything.
Such contortion; such magic.
Love was beautiful. We never know tendencies.
(Just be happy!)
(I’ll be alright.)
And visiting skies, at horizons, at the red light.
I thought to grab a cigar: to hell with that.
And looking at it, seldom into stars, knowing that too would curdle.
Surefire perdition, not just a situation, from father to father, like a tyrannical curse.
Father was a gift to it. I tread in his footsteps.
I try to do it better. It doesn’t matter.
The family dealing with it. They see the secret.
Majesty to the young: so much to deal with, just to exist.
A few are aware: mystic destiny, aching the walking seas.
Upside down, summonsing ancestors, chains, miseries, fury, fire, and flame.
