Upon a flat line or soaring into skies. At least by assertion. And asking for grace, seducing complication, weeping heart mercy. Love roars like a lioness; Love travels the middle world. I find the in-between excruciating—a soul wishes to fly on demand, akin to pondering a first dance. Encouraged to stipple magic, to recite grays, accursed at spirit, one lasting flute. Too random where
one fights for individuality. Never prided, or batting an eye, alike to preachers—every Sunday revving it up. Elation is addictive, for it’s like a phantom, it appears in a flash. Love was performative, theoretical, filled with psychic sockets. I try to ride a current, to evolve swiftly, both
sensitive and desensitized—some strange creature, akin to leviathan, many emotions are swamp based. Too much to receive. The hunch is tentative. Love is a machine. Love is fierce. Love is delicate. Such is the difficulty. One sees it, has insights, works against it—swamplike emotions. “Either it’s all for me or I work against it.” I keep traveling. And Love is a picture in a portrait, a scream in its wailing, water in its fount. So much is invested; where one desecrates vision—to
need in turn a delicate river. While I tire of conspiracy talk, I realize some things are in motion. We ask for clarity. It can’t be located. Most often many gridlocks are deliberate. To notice a feeling in its denial, sheer internal contradiction, most ears are soundproof. If to try at a snail’s pace, torture
in it, travesty in undergoing(s), wandering islands, seeing what was in throes of passion. Hard enough to blame a man, if he never knew, as it was never revealed. Such change into a butterfly—such wildness in nature, so great the beauty. As Love would balance scales, cedar chest letters, world renowned feathers or clipped wings; a soul must war, design has it no other way.
