Sometimes the feeling is good. At turnpikes, the feeling is painful.
In crossing paths, feeling certain—such tender astrology—fraught by omens, so alone with a gentle palm.
I renege on a feeling, harassed by phantasm, listening to an inner prankster.
Souls permeate anxieties, spellbound over love, knitted to angst—so
psychological
…
lost over cadence, with dissent so close
—broken ranks.
Nobody knows when love is creative—slow paced, over sand dunes, meshed into mind mazes, pampering a sandcastle.
