The years have fullness, be it fretful, part empty. Such nonexistent voices, as they become valid, vivid, misidentified. Up against sea walls, adoring a subtle craft. I never stitched you—something to touch a cemetery with us: old gothic caskets, gargoyles as witnesses, unable to just write mythic away: by tyranny’s bane. We need not unnerve self. I’m not claiming wounded, as if renowned
enough for it to be true. Such esoteric hoodoo; once a cleansed vassal; alike to wakeful visions. So much losing upon wishing victory, devastated. Loving is a vague language, it means a few feelings—rather assert some sort of possession, raw obsession, unable to pace wraiths. Such tender contradiction; wiles and ways one deceives self—those polite and poisonous feelings. So many
reasons to refuse cosmos. Some lakes are fraught by algae; others, completely muddy. I could see it, people going ape madness—two souls feeling alike in intensity. (Life requires more.) Often, less is given. Across a giver, I would assert rain is pouring. Years are driven skies. Many inscriptions. Many wipeouts. With pleasure freefalling—buoyant indifference, sustaining a
crossing, absorbed in a feeling. Somethings both cursed and blessed about us. Looking at russet wines. All I know is rebirth. All I see is measure. I receive resistance, a required subscription.
