If I may tell it, sore disquieted, greeting memories. Such soul-iniquity, grinding through havens, begging those last three dimensions. Lord! Enough said. They extracted what they could, upon sickbeds. And Love is too wise to deceive. We wonder if such is deliberate. Giving it all! They ask if souls are living, as opposed to existing. Mango cigars. Strawberry gins. If to ask a deeper question, unrelated to sensuality, to wonder—will I see heaven? Such a monopoly in dungeons; unseen tears; walking, writhing, maybe a fork splits literature. (It’s an oddity of feelings; one intends intentions; each moment pushes its presence, itching nearby, if one word to sooth it, I’ve lost all my words.) Sunshine in a gifted miracle, one smile to see completion, one sin against all I lived for, bled of spirit, dining on what would be; never as it is, while it still appears, losing sight, thrust through by a spear. What has been done, as it shivers, each kiss is a lance, never realized she hated us. Moonlit. To live out some fantasy, to never divulge understanding, and I can’t ignore it. We’ve come to a point where God must be defined, if to speak godspeed. Where adoring is qualified by aching, upon an unredeemed island, such wild calmness, and in reality, the poet lost the war. I wouldn’t utter a word, wandering bridges, a thousand years out, and God was found to be nonfiction. Losing stability, walking up-straight, only a few made privy, only one knew.
