Running out of time, a lonely grind, some may visit, however. Trying to seize life, agitated by life, threshed inside, fields. I received pieces of self; I listen to her laughter; it makes a woman aesthetic. Nevertheless, falling into a vacuum, source of endings, thrown into faith. Some needed it. Some selected it. Many begged for it. So morose. So fortunate. Holding against sandpaper, passive enough to be aggressive. I heard a sentence. I kept it to heart. It starts to matter. When saying otherwise. It was this month. I took to silly water. I reminisce on us. Most of us are keeping forward, holding memories. Such prudence; treating dreams like investments. It was intense; ever the measure of ghosts. (I’ll tell a tale of spirit entering muscles, and everyone says, “The poet has gone mad.”) I wish Love wellness, a gift in skies. And Love was quick-witted; we looked, we courted winds, we tended to our lives. It’s amazing how one can testify, hampered by pillows, holding life for her worth. Such twisting inside, so existential, to love more than most, to attest to waning at points. And Love will never know such value, top three, upon a lasting message, and adoring came with time. They remember many savants, gifted, lacking, reaching. It must first make sense. Too many daydreams. Many poets are wrestling, nay, fighting realities.
