It was taught to me. It was by emotion, radical expression. It was by analyses. It was alert through intuition. It was churned by intelligence. It challenged reason, affixed to logic. Most adapted a
hostile trajectory. Such affection for it, as it unfolds. So close; so distant; at sectors, most indifferent to it: some type of relationship, damn near an entity. It has sentience—a given life: when going well, such intimacy; when reluctant, such frustration. By a graph those waves, in suggesting
freedom, so spatial, such a false reality, to deceive self, if to create a piece. A serf to it; a rising understanding; Love might have adopted such temperament … those with fever, so furtive, much on display, feelings will shower, snow will fall—summer might be instrumental. If to make poetry
into a fantasy, she dies and resurrects in each line, she resuscitates sentiments, and suffocates freedoms, such responsibility in approaching her castle. To have cherished some property—to have
felt some connection, to have needed some therapy, such autonomy, such slavery, poetry is paradox, so much to adore. Some are for her. Some are against her. An inner inn. A mental intoxication. A graveyard full of letters. Sheer capacity; to make an office; to negotiate over supper. Tragic sanity; endorsing souls—making creativity, such addiction, then a shut down.
