I heard a faint whisper—upon a neat swoosh, the breeze as it lives. In lying to self, believing existence is not abstract.
Arts are compelling—the notion of returning home, affectively feeling unlatched—the miracle inside.
To have a space for trauma, such was dramatized.
The thrill of climbing a mustard tree. The beauty of tasting a petal.
The world was oblivious to us in the midst of activity. The lie was, we never existed.
So many colors, so many creations.
We would for a time, to vanish in an instance, to travel, to revisit the beginning. Sore beliefs; running in place, those days to have felt lively.
The raptures—those anxieties. In adoring, it felt ecstatic.
As one to those moods. As another to those thrills. With others searching for truths.
Take a soul soaring, free of exhaustion, sung softly—the nature of comforts, grooming as spatial creatures—to cherish in one sweep—those nights we would remember.
