At life alike to wars. To enjoy a glass of cognac. To embrace chaos. A soul to dying often, living in-between times, missing lasting realms. In a tear deeper. Into dreams with reapers. Motion never comes to rest. I try to keep quiet. An impossible chef. We’ve a situation at hand: can’t absorb her completely, can’t live without her completely. Too close to what’s elusive. Minds upon tightropes. Souls upon indifferent waves. In trying not to perish—still breathing, trying to be decent—up against all things. Neckbones, potatoes—resistant to it, too occupied with it—if to see struggle in her eyes, if to ignore beige walls, if to listen during times of distress. Such precious lives, oriented by trials, building character—enforcing a hardened countenance—going through dreams. Ghetto charms. To wonder why. From where souls stood—it wasn’t getting better. Byproducts of poverty—impoverished murmurs, indebted for surviving. Faced by violence. Formed by silence. Under conditions others died by. Building images. To walk by faith. A sign—something tragic was born. We might adore what we can’t keep. We might be wrapped in struggle, in love through miseries, proud to have perished together. One immortal portrait—same picture, different islands, parents looking crestfallen; so great by its churn, to make it through years, carrying experience, walls swallowing souls.
