Bone and gristle; marrow and wine. I gave until it churned. So much for ought; such pearls for souls, a new name. And remembering great embarrassment, near a filthy lake, conversing with a platypus. Love is hurting, finding good in pain, frozen, an iceberg, made warm, such losing identity. I skip differences. I never get lost in it. I used to sell self dreams. To ignore skies, to purchase emeralds, sudden to stumble upon rhinestones. Such white golden eyes; only love, we assert; beneficial wrath, a ghost at it, no one quite knows. I appeared, tatted, listening, speaking, said something unique, and it meant truth. By battle to upsurge and sing, sour at times, wondering lately—reality has a compass to it. To imagine life stops at chi; certain dissatisfying satisfaction. So oxymoronic: think it through. Upon a sketching, crocheted clouds, freefalling miles high, upon a presence, had to expose it. From bottom rung, rinsed repeatedly, baptized as a testimony; never met her, some glimpse, giving all to buff it out. Back to Father; both wrong, I just hold a different identity. So infallible, so discarded, standing in rain, a chuckle from depth the island. It will never be what dwells deeper, too many hurdles. I could try harder, upon a lotus, moving self until it burns. Soul of my soul. Art of her castle.
