When a room is empty … when darkness comes … and one visits …. I was filled with arcane ink. I was a child. The sting was there … it felt stolen. I would watch ceilings, perfected in desire, trying not to think that way. Much was sacrificed. Life was given to receive life. Such a notion. Such a culture. Many parallels. To find life suffers itself. To find breath contradicts its reach. As it comes it may pass away. As it lives it may relegate to memory. I realize a mind will hold to what it pleases, despite, circumstances. It just has proclivities. I was in by intuition, never a clearer second, to have seen an image; it stood still, a shocked expression, maintaining by an allusion; those piercing glances, those bold shifts, to have died in one’s ways. Stomachs tremble; a countenance emboldens, and doves run wilder. When a room is empty … when darkness looms … and one disappears …. I was fraught by undercurrents—trailing underbrush—heaving underground; in loving its ideal, in shivering pure thought, to look and need by genetic instinct. Ambrosia for many. Vinegar for some. Such presence, essence of ambivalence. To be at mystery, ever foggy, to picture life is with us … indeed, never to fathom otherwise … I’ll not strum a violin, as it erupts, to know—it seems paradoxical.
