The mortal wars against time, such fleeting waves. He desires what he can’t grasp, abusive immortality. With everything to win, he settles for his thoughts. He’ll yen for a desperate curse, if to sing softly. Each round in life’s presence; each sword preventing life. He speculated upon love, fed humbling fruits. If to believe in all things, disappointed by all things. Never aware of it, but riddle confined it. Most have difficulty with reality, in midst of lies, siding with invisibility. (I speak on his life, attuned at its core, sensing parallels—in sin we live, in God we trust.) He’d see an impression—of an image, rectangular skies, an overrated dynamic, a love for what makes her mystic; thunderstorms, pet wolves, million-dollar anxieties; and Love was with arts, undoubtedly giving life to a wraith. He was negligent with kindness. It wasn’t what it became. We never learn; or we learn to see. So indebted to Love; such as when everything goes wrong. We do as others permit. Such is a fable. He learned Love was withering. Years were waning. In oppression, Love discovered life. She wasn’t letting that go. He’d adjust as best he could. She’d keep pushing. The mortal wars against time. And afar, in an alcove, painting a portrait—lives a Taoist, monitoring disbeliefs. So unborn, forbidden from existing, ever a complication, plus, most are jealous of each other—to envision one pining, burning embers, affectionate with multiple deaths.
