Let souls win beyond floods, unquenched, fever-hearted. To adore the humanistic, shocked, climbing persistence. I never met beyond what I could see. Such nervous creatures. Made that way. Maybe assisted in life, so gifted in life, threaded in silken spirits. Soaring through fits, gray celerity, fueled excellence. Everything goes under—to meet itself, what I become was always me—a soul catching up to itself. Over yonder, I never noticed it—such is taken for excellence, on par with devastation. Too much to sustain, an elated joy in its rains: jazzy preaching, wondering about clergy. Unbound. Left to suffer. Indeed, right aside us, showing compassion—a desperate state of affairs, if to see strength. Into a feeling, trying to figure this journey, affected by a certain air—noticing yoga pants, seeing infinity, I think souls ask a lot of each other. Needing contrary qualities—angled for eternity, one god to a goddess. So affected inside, easily unveiled, so much underrated, believing one is imperceptible. It was never ignored. Such a ghostly room. It never meant what exaggerates affection. A long road. Feeling it in airs. I heard Love has perfection. Never a tear. A soul was a poet, looking inwardly, feeling titillation, quite beginning, fretting finished, an intense emotion. Those years were simmering. Those extremes inside. A metaphysical recipe. A wraith of affectation—cold summers, swooshing through atmosphere, to do rightly.
