If it meant what it compelled thought to believe. If is a long journey. I walked side by side with If. A tender poison, a deep, abysmal descent, a beautiful dream, courage to believe. And in being lost—the indifference, a soul’s refuge—repeating what Love requires. I could not match nor measure cards, stealing myself from angst. One sees—it is brutal, partway abandoned, through banished woods. Holding hearts in one’s hands. Clever chaos, curious caves. Take my place if it seems easy. And we were agog about Truth. Truth became burdensome. Nevertheless, we chase her essence. we die cleaving to her cause. If one looked hard enough, heaving whispers, to catch a glimpse, a wiser man would have run. If is always nudging us with some promise. If has an agenda. It seems aware of inner gravity. If is always appealing. One facing a storm says, “If I make it, I’ll triumph.” In truth, one might win with If. This is misery and majesty with If. To throw it to chance might not be fair. Being rigid might run spirits off. Most communicate with If. I cannot remember when I was introduced to her. She seemed important, giving options. No matter how disappointing at times, she grants favor at the right moment. If life meant what it compelled thought to believe. Many a soul seduced by word magic. Jutted upon an edge—jazzy jousting, judge, plus, jury—indicting If.
