In perpetuity, the crows on high; in reality, a man shall become a firebird. Asking for leniency, as understood, to mean God requires a great deal. So clean, such lockes, giving life to being sound. Tugged by a thought, mourning innocence, I knew as she died. Battling inner walls, said to just write, plainly absurd. Such vulgarity—by its design—to have souls forever kneeling in grayness. A man will defeat himself; he shall uprise in those terrors. Certain otiose scars, to find meaning, to have loved with honor. What’s better: to have one’s pride, or to have her favor? Ask me to slowdown, try it, watch science come unglued. Nothing can compare to it, like Satan begged forgiveness, like demons taking communion. A man is given his capacities, fraught by determination, never able to completely change. Ask me about it, those years, as facing mental abuse; ask me was it indelicate, was it righteous, were feelings being ruined. I was—or is it—what was to be—was altered? This is the reign of injustice—one event, a perpetual battle—or was it three events, to utter something profound—No weapon formed against me—shall prosper? Realizing it’s a thought war. Such gravid circumstance; such hectic lights. A man must earn his freedoms. They aren’t given. Like a man must earn his wife, long after coitus.
