Nobody loves like essence. Such gothic lights, mystic wolves. (Unarmed, they say, face to heaven, disputing one tear.) To suckle cloudberries. To sickle inactivity. Waiting out something unending. Only by feelers, jousting as we do, feuding myself; such wounded nemesias, such watchful zinnias, and a tear might feel cathartic. Too much for truths. Too artistic for breath. And one is wheezing, fire of my flame! (It was for essence. It forms pride. Life takes to itself. Reflection of my mirror—by another’s face, wherefore, we dream. And how to forget again, loathing reflection, seething upon winds, stronger in my weakness.) To a third person, enveloping two others, on a wild trail, nurturing tumbleweed. If loving is a sin, let Depth repent, a soul does as parents taught. By excellence in one soul, as to find offense in others. Let fey be gentle. Let summer illuminate demons. A fever along a path, sudden into dilemma—curse of my voice, scream of my silence. And Love never knew for us, a zephyr in its chase, as curious creatures, worrisome upon those gates. To stand and gaze into emptiness, to feel at home, such lousy negotiations. If making it to Father, to ask for clearance, such bolden confidence. In all those complaints, treating humans as phantoms, all Love asked was to feel loved correctly.
