What does it look like? Each dimension offers beauty. Older souls offer sophistication. Younger souls offer emphases. To need: we should ponder that. (Such a lowness to this song; damn near unbearable.) It feels baptized.
I was looking at morning, mourning the fallen.
She was a unique woman: blessed, sullen, putting pieces together, mystical, anti-religion, feminist, etc.
She was well read, judgmental, elitist—I never had a chance, I meant to remember that.
On to something else.
Aesthetic necks. Hidden napes. Defensive hair.
I sense presence. Consciousness is riddled. (I imagine an entire life uninvestigated, slow self-torment, watching, reading, feeling, remaining faithful: I’d opt out if possible: it’s too much.)
Such keen insights, such gifts to life, to hells, to love, always tugged, mental, partway there.
The record is stippled in spirit. To feel fire, to adore a phantom—knowing there will … as in never, to abuse self that way.
II
Give a soul his mind. Sure surreality; certain pressures. Give a spirit its sight, to imagine loyalty. So against us; so close to unreality.
Those moments being evasive; those charms by heart sequences. And one stands neither in nor out, such tyranny.
Long live those waves, longer into reflection.
I sense it’s unusual to love. One must be equipped. Status quo. I was seeing inside—a picture appeared, it seems kind.
And I’ll find sunrise, challenged by deception, to ruin what most never appreciate. Outstanding beauty; sheer unbelievable; wrestling; if a soul could fathom, one would be amazed—the battle, those fields, mind wars.
To see our behavior; to know for justification; to suggest—it went too far. A person will lie to create perfection; to imagine where we push souls.
It unravels. We feel achy. It was always imaginary.
Give a soul her mind. Sudden exhilaration; renowned pressures.
