days have texture. a man yearns for tomorrow. sweet blossoms, acidic rain. words dragged out, as opposed to freefalling. I tell myself—it doesn’t mean much. A difficult assertion; a spin on reality.
I must be proactive—; I mustn’t wait for sadness to pass. I agree with that. So, I wait it out. I tug
at wires, stare at a trapeze, traipse a scar, difficult cadence. I’ll capture sorrows, nibbling a chip for minutes, gazing into a given thought, analyzing an inner ear. I imagine wolves howling, doves
praying. I used to daydream a lot; I need to say, many years ago. It amazes how I would entertain malaise. It’s become taboo to assert madness. I’d speak to beauty as an affectionate creature; a
somber gait; holy presence; sheer teary-eyed joys. It seems like life; a mixture of happiness—
touched by gloominess. Battling an existential impasse, grave inside, meaning little to others, as they face life. I wait for a song to shift—its ending seems more important; upon a feeling, a thought
addressing emotion, a sign in heaven, to drift into a portal. Love is unknown. Memories made intangible. Deep lighted moods. Arts of pyramids; passions anew; a slight grimace, we call it
remnants; to love skies, to pamper a lily, to adore what never gives fruition; making goodness, one dream, affixed to a type of ingenuity.
