From opening to closing, gnawing at life, all things seem serious, even gnats. Looking at it, overwhelmed by it. Too much to ask about it, to share affection about it. Life is with parameters – made crisp, too much to tackle, too aloof to hold. (If I trespassed life, with all offenses, can I
rightly complain?) See her as intimate, effectual at times, lethal, addictive in nature. She (life) chances heights, remains uncanny, many lows to understand her. Each axiom weakens in utterance. Prose (life) is suffering something esoteric, most insufferable, most desired. Beyond weaving, deep
in seams, fabric neatness, cloth chaotic—in seeking life, catching visions, seeing simplicity, vying for entrance. Life is in needs; proven inconsistent, troubled by love, souls trying to fit in, trying to smile louder, enjoying when it moves softly. By no greater gift, seeing how life does souls, such remarkable pleasures, curse of contradiction, double teabags. With days like riddles, iridescent
hopes, palatial foresight, either fulfilment or disappointment. From start to finish, guessing at life, (as if it wasn’t troubled enough); souls have earned life. Souls open early—accelerated prisms, life is never alike to its ideals. In decorum, determined, impossibly influenced—impassioned hopes, thwart at times, listening to something inside, pushing, though languishing.
