Rather the difficulties, rather the curses. By vice and performance; by chains and resistance. The legacy of profundity … baffled at all times. Seduction of the core person; articulate pain. If to taste life, to live ecstasy, by dear disappointment, sudden reincarnation. A given pool, sweaty napes, thrown into passions, a sigh, a giggle, a knee. It wasn’t intentional the rivers inside; it came with ripples at heights those chameleon eyes. So many prisms; plangent winds, mythical gods, every incentive to create meaning, if to define existence; asking Love for clarity, attacked for masculinity, minds dedicated to persistence. Wasted wines. Waist bound. To give ink, to challenge consensus. (Years pass swiftly. With remembrance of schism, stained church glasses—in trying to feel goodness—she passes into glory, so alphabetical, pursuing her come sunrise. Experience is fleeting, to have loved sight seen, a smidgen of dying as years passed by.) Soulful persons make life—to want versus to need, if to study personality, if to become knitted. Amazed how spirit necessitates, some element rising inside, making desire palpable, to yen for one soul. Purity of experience, such human vessels, perfected vassals, going through portals. So heavy those years, addicted to a feeling, so neat the company of angelica—a cured man is a deceived man—it takes eternity, several trips, sweet resurrection.
