I would aim to create; time always moving. I would aim to relate; wisdom hiding gently. In seeking, I must seek myself: Dialogue. I first enjoyed a figment of my imagination; it has become whelming. I spend hours pushing at a phantom. One would try to assist, another implants, weather feels the course. In all the getting, with Love at a cliff, we never relented. I wonder if brains do according to time. Yes. Mindful of it, as imposed upon it, nevertheless, to do according to time. Fantasy seeming timeless. And Love might hurt aside a soul: treasured premonitions. Maybe sequential meditation, if to break what never breeds. Each dimension—sureness of power—to see a poem and sigh. Time isn’t coquettish—it never flirts, it moves in one direction: animation comes to pass. I imagine pressure: so dear a dynamic spirit: intent on movement, subsumed by excellence, to see, to admire, to perish a smidgen. (I was uneven in love. It hit like a storm. I figured it was good for me: rationalizing.) Maybe Zeus would articulate it. Maybe Artemis would bless fertility, so bad a connection—to have a healing union. (I can’t debate it any longer: mind-matter, lyric-wraiths, a soul granted ignition.) In searching a precipice, ignoring pretention, the weeping willow, discolored at times.
