The face would be sin. The gospel is prose. I must seduce patience. If to keep order. Going into chambers—mystic channels—the face is darkness. Flickering. Let there be luminosity. Such spasms. Dwelling in terrors. Life keeps coming. Trying to forget happenstance, alike to changing cultures, a neat practice, the self can’t be effaced, despite tenets. Go ahead and give life, this is beautiful. One’s features. One’s brow line. And we leave emotion to stitch a bond. The caress of gentility. The meals at the table. Those tender bedtime stories. And we leave that to feelings. The face was darkness, sternness, until a beaming bulb, a brilliant sun, dreams in motion—the face would still be sin. Such terrible clarity. A man’s disturbance. To have read the most alarming literature. There’s pain there. One needed to wait before becoming concerned. If necessary, how to vet that? If unnecessary, where is the soul of that person? The face is gorgeously benighted. Darkness is raw alure. Needing sensuous titillation; needing the pains that probe us; needing deep felt alienation. The author is off. The audience is clear. We assume such things. Or the author is clear, and the audience is off. Either/or, else both are off at points, and clear at points. The face would sin. The most deplorable behaviors, to see fascination, curiosity, an attraction to what one might detest, pure concupiscence. To imagine a man, raw in his years, at his peak, to shift, as to notice a heart-beating anguish. The latter is better than the former. The former gave life a form. One might tire of turmoil. One might grow weak around old appetites. And a soul was a minister—forgetting his color, the consensus ruled against him, just like King Jr.
