I keep it simple or difficult. I learned to love by experiencing love. I still fret Love. Nevertheless, a ghost at it, a thief at it, feeling remorse, frozen inside, thawing out lately. A bag of gifts, a séance artist, renaissance passion, skating through traffic. I heard it was hard. I stopped analyzing that; instead, I focused on patterns, and God is always rich. To condescend to low ranks, Jesus with those suffering, such captive poverty. I long to believe, let God be good! I long to cross portals, let Jesus be kind. (“Of course, my son; cleaning up debris, it was in you, to return to what is in you.” I do not recollect. It feels natural. It appears as does commonsense. Let the pain be rewarded.) We fathom a proposition; such a pictureless viability: let Father hear us. Moving into motion, a little bias, understanding her plight, fighting a fight, trying to impassion rightness, a little filthy, I keep bathing, and lies made us liable. They said in rebuttal: “We had to, to survive.” Over kidney beans and rice, to omit a hammock, onions, peppers, and bouillon—such filled with garlic. It was giving to me—praying for a jet prayer, discouraged at moments, trying to hear psalms on repeat. On a verge of it, feeling heavy, knowing all my wrongs, never too content, realizing, life is a series of small moves—let motion be irresistible.
