Just needing to break free—of patterns—of repetition; just needing to believe as fledglings, just keeping company. Just because life is uneven, horns and music, pulpits and dreams, if to conquer existence. Just for a moment; just because it feels right; just blues, jazz, devastation, trying to recharge. Just a few remarks, just on one occasion. Fireplace passions, not so fair, a slightness to it all, to welcome it just because. Fierce beginnings. Partway sacrificed. They never knew it would hurt us. They tried. To have one engaging just because. Tragic comforts. Such burning embers—to pull a soul out of self, each scent a scenery. Just in case it never envisions, left to travels with hopes; trying to work it out, trying to make it right, so involved with what let’s go—just because—in making armor, in knitting excellence, just enough to pine forever. Prose as travesty. Adulthood as unmeasured. Childhood as traumatic. Just the music. Just angst. Just meeting for the first time. Just hope. Just healing. Just a vision in a dream. Just partly bypassed. If holding or flirting with flame; if believing against reality; if mind closure is of issue—such cadence, eventual chaos, just seeking credence. So indirect; a soul left to wish as he chooses. And life is so short—finding reason to disregard flickers; soul of spirits, just in case, getting exhaustion mixed with pash. Just because pains are insistent, to sense if it makes rhythm, occasioned to perish—if one paw print. More to independent loneliness, to accept certain rites, to live unfulfilled, chasing one art, such wonderful and pained laughter—just because the winds are swarming, those cages are opening, and thieves have left the temple—just in case souls were musing, just in case it might resonate.
