I wouldn’t know how to respond. Those tales; those visions. And Love is epiphany, wounds. I imagine arguments, disputing an obvious point, trying to get it through—something is wrong. I’d
adore as does a fledgling, swept by feelings, taking courage to sing. It sounds familiar. It sticks with us. Unspoken emotion; deteriorating passion. I shall get lost again. I’ll renew what sits beyond
scars. I’ll face the great doubt, defeat the great dragon. In it all, so much beauty, to discount it, pain must run like rivers. In holding to ceramics, hoping they don’t shatter, warring intestines, writhing in agonies, suspicious of breath—darkness, bleak weather, seeking self. I was constructed, parts
were smelted, pieces were smothered, essence was neglected. Something emerged, after decades in the makings. Many see (some) parts are good. Wishing to cultivate those parts. Like an anomaly,
certain responses, they must be wrong, for they don’t fit. We assume intentions are decent, by merit of a given soul. One has vetted herself, far beyond measure. The anomaly lives his life, hebetated in some respects, not desensitized, not quite receptive. Nevertheless, we fix ourselves when
something is missing, if desired: it takes assiduous hours, weeks, months, even years. We rarely see others. We see needs. We see changing persons—if to fit like clay pots. I take no stance. It
can’t be unnormal. Too many are captured by it. (At the masquerade, saying sweetness, with measures being true, a reason in agonies; curse of majesty, mystique wilderness, a fluid forest. If to die one last trial, if to experience newness, a vetting machine, abused emotion. It was always
tragic; it was announced early-on, we can’t outwit instincts. Love is more hypothetical, and certainly dependent on behaviors, with searching for authentic creatures with deep reflection.)
