Into a galaxy of treasures, those remarkable elements, trying not to approach you; such is failure, I woke up, the gut wheezes. So great in black & white, such troublesome winds when in grays. I rethink you, to presume a slew of questions, arms at regathering fruits. A few things in you keep me praying; entity mysticism, those years battling your name, such relation in foreign dismals. I was reaching, a casual fool, I believed in love, so anxious. Nice talk? I question nice talk? I hear it was once bliss, I wonder why all elements dissipate into vinegar water. Indeed. We need to hold on. Reality means so little. And Love serves a purpose, and it feels good, and it dies hard—those eyes to know us, to reach across a room and gaze into us. Such contradiction. I mean it that way. For love is first the world, aside a chariot, such prophecy, renewing one another daily. But more to some angle—some mystery, as denied in totality, as mused upon, as felt, to look into Love, to feel guilty, such human affections. Never you mind the distraction, I see configurations, shadows, I hear reasoning, I feel utter frustration. To imagine guts leaping, tsunamis anchoring, such raging hurricanes. Such to be used. Such to use in return. Or rather, diffused, as an effusion, pouring into an aesthetic. I would if it were in me. I have nothing for life but mystery. Life has nothing for me but intricates. A pilot of souls, meshed in making passion, to have tapped into a reservoir. A raven on the hills. A falcon swooping through measures. An eagle laughing and swarming. To know you. To feel ill-charged, to have loved unknown to magic. And Love was sickness, upon a measure, to swoosh through traffic, into a resounding blast. I heard him. He watches you. Souls are territorial. We notice nuances. We guess. We ask. We hear lies. Such improbable souls, such erratic beliefs, so actual into a leaping scar. I was wondering, like a damn fool, looking into being human, wandering a synaptic gap, and Love said no! Those palatial energies, those chi eyes, those tales of something incredible. I speak for self, as getting in age, to have given existence to one cave. Those eyes will ask one’s gut to evolve in winds. Those delicate hands will encourage a nation. Those pains will hurt in presence of love.
