Sothern studio sounds, royal voices; a cursed generation, so blessed, such intimate conflict. Museum minded, measured metrics, marvelous malaise. To blush out a blot, buried under bushes. Last day rites, pyramid Egypt, such sin in essence, so soothing, made terrific. Sun filled nights; pardoned tomorrows. Sheer understanding, not so lonely a trail. (I was looking at a locket, if art might avail, an upsurge of urgency. To stand in stillness, to swelter, to rinse beliefs, one dance to soar.) Theatrical auditions, cavalier dismissals. And life is pressures, primal urges, in adoring each other, we never met one another. It’s a casual thing, a cliché at heart, holding meaning, to receive what one asks for; tither to a random ending, thence, detached, ever trying to feel existence.
By and by, a soul will hunger for life, for affection of creeds, to attach to an ideal. Days are filled with wilderness, such melodramatic rules, chorus and song, in pledging to worship Love; at gates stands a doorman, filled with existence, hovering are mayflies, until an ending of time. Such clumps of grass, in coming to resolutions, for life is short and church bells ring. Through gardens, symbolic herbs, violet skies, nestling with Invisibility—olden spirits, one tender pillow, and dusky beginnings; pure marble, purer purple, mental mystique, across a sable plain.
