Upon a feeling those vibrant pangs, like arts and medicine. If to sing it naturally, part creative, part self-affliction. A mellow melody those summaries, with souls pointing at imperfections. I long to have a dynasty, surrounded by confidants, celebrated like kings—fever of souls, ambitious enough, needing to increase my chasing. And spirit was in its prime, full of dirty dancing, to have chuckled prematurely, to have laughed at another’s anguish. If I gave royalty, I’d expect regality. With so much ahead of science, with so much defaming religion, to come to a point, a road, to admit to commonality, seasoned for greater chaos. To have loved in essence, to have melic charms, by grace, by crude oil. I couldn’t woo as it was those years in ecstasy. Talking nice has a deep clause to it. A soul ages in many respects. If to fall into an abyss, captivated by character, to have treasure in one’s personality, when words are existence, two coming together means life. Such yelling inside, echoing into pillows, to find with time no greater estate. Wilder eyes, prior to domestication. Articulate newness. Much in pains—to have wrecked pieces; in a gentle soul, to redeem time, living sight unseen. I know of tales told, a mythical creature, full of sensational paws, to have stimulated by greatness—curse of majesty, blessing of transgression, art by winds.
