If I told life its name, life would giggle. Life is nameless, and yet we call it life. Quiet storms; taboo flames. That feeling is indescribable. And when indelible, it shouldn’t perish. I was being difficult with self, deciding I’ve never written prose. I undergo such spells—under scrutiny. Trying to break silence to draw a smile, malaise has lived so long. Dearest of dreams, an intellectual dowry, a lighthearted notation, years by intimate caves—loving as it was understood; missing its target, confirmed in its wilderness. If alert to subtlety, then alert to promise. With a long trespassing, to have altered structure, as it passes, we witness what fate has planned. By ravenous excitement where numbness roamed, by phoenix cries, intimate dungeons, believed as joys. I would’ve called God, as done so often, we weather that way, sheer asymmetry. And zones shift, each trend dying as it arrives; nothing is necessary, but everything is necessary. Harlequins struggle to mimic happiness, such grayness, surly paradox—asking for liberty, disputing justice. At a wall when it was designed; at a curse when it felt good: did it all as a shadow, hearing bad angels. In a wave of electricity, shocking souls where Love was knitting mittens; empowered at some point while devastated in a selfless breath: worlds clashing, if by its inner soul book.
