Everything isn’t as it appears. Looking closer, neat vodka, juice with gin, pathological ulcers. To have Love seems too sweet to believe; dark roasted coffee, armlength havens, regathering broken berries—life of my needs—winepress of my visions. Quite determined. Sensing it hurts. Tears falling, undressing closure, too intimate for a running statue. Buried in words, giving rain back by onus, ontic space, something still taunting. If to be honest, something extraterrestrial is in motion; those with ether fathom, to be with slight haunting, encouraged from regions, always one step towards disclosure. In feeling goodness, in perspective of rites, made country, made stars. Who needs eternity, such a blessed curse, minds stirring martinis, quite close to repetition, one casual excitement over eternity; both filled with nuances, caged by dreams, partaking of essence, near ruined. So emphatic upon winds, through exospheric glens, many garbs of light and esoteric sins. Almighty sunlight those spectrums we travel, chasing holy contradictions, pleasurable misconception, facial abandonment; spinning, Love, one solution, sanctioned and satisfied, so casual to adore, unknowing to self, pursuing happiness by instinct. An uneasy realm, sickles or scythes, life so close to perfect chaos, to need beyond capacity, cleaving to harps.
