It rarely falls as it should. In forcing syntax, one dies. So precedented; one dream those days, and nerves were fretting. Affected by lusts, innocent desire, naïve desire. Light forms in each life. Darkness dissipates at moments, only to return. In seeing like others, it churns. In being self, I realize I’m unfree. Still lascivious, with banshee cravings, disputing a halo, a scar, a tint of falsities. It rarely falls as it should; even then, some part is missing. Love travels a portal, morals are placed neatly, what we ought to do takes precedence, with space to see humanity, as one longs for clarity, one sees into horizons; and it was fire to alarm us, such facial glitter, knowing it all started with flame. Souls kept looking outwardly, probed internally, missing what some kept as a riddle, so casually to announce life. Now souls smoke hookahs, debate what’s written, wearing tunics, asking permission to speak. Prose has a mind of its own. It tells a story. It desires lusts. It dreams of polite silence, to adore—to live by joys, with a somber aftertaste. Through years, watching an inner person, best of oneself, still unclear, failing to try, longing into a breeze. Prose would have a soul confessing love, pleading for orisons, made a mantis, begging for punishment. Sweet charms, deadly spirits, to be with antennas high, defenses low, to believe in others again.
