The keys belong to someone else. The lamp flickers for its torch. I grow bitter. Such boxy jingling. Manna was temporary; faith seems to last for centuries. A man looked at a woman’s contour. Such repute of a woman. Like a sponge to absorb separateness; like holding a heart on stage. Brooks. Curdling algae. Never such silence. To esteem beauty; to contemn with irony. So superconscious. So beyond mortals. So sad at moments. Too much foresight, determined in it, life has shot us. By zealot ecstasies; by unclarity; the motive is radical, a soul forfeited many beliefs. Hear acute music, thresh a spirit, bleed until sunrise. The flux; treacherous pant; to gash and gnaw ignoring love. Just a set agenda. So, I negate self, I vanish by winds, I return a locomotive. One latchet. One serum. One opportunity to claim positions—all within a flogging to souls. Such edible emotions. Such up for downs. To keep a soul teetering. By dreams—sure redemption, to outwit literature, to become more than filthy garments. Indeed, believe nothing, live a short time, die lonely. Never submit to nothing, cherish kids, everything else can see hell. Seeking symmetry. Living out levity. Sublime stressors. Poisons of an excellent soul, for not all listen. So languid at points, eating perseverance, wondering what in hell is this. Dancing out firebrand. Returning to find emptiness. Those lavender scars, marooned eyes, turquoise pains, topaz wounds. I said nothing.
