It’s a longer breath-filled wake. To need one, to die in the need. Most try not to emote, this is difficult. A poet needs to feel each emotion, so as not to perish. I was with feelings, not emotion. I studied aura, I sunk into meaning, I lost largely. If to adore—in its ache, if to love, defined inside, based in intensities. If to live!
I sense an understanding in souls to cherish based in words, a person’s breath is a soul’s witness. One goes in desiring to believe. If disappointed, it comes with environment, territory. I want to say, I’ve never felt in extremes those natural feelings: this is untrue.
I felt it to know when it’s missing. I’ve souls in us, to visit each other. So succinct a claim. So radiant a belief. I notice most of what we assert comes from internality: a torturing type of gift. Until coming to reality! Life can prove a cruel mistress. Reality is not in search of balance. Even when in reality, it remains elusive. I’ve loved the sky for eternity. That sounds strange. In seeing it bubble up, with flare and devastation, such mediocrity to some, a deeper execution of senses. A dearness to it supposes all see as we see. What undermines seems to win. We seem to desire working harder for Love. I admire our resilience. I favor our arts. I don’t understand our logic. And Love is reasonable; such relatable scars; silent existentialism, and most are aware.
