The dream is ever a casualty. Such coils, endearing ripples, those raven eyes, so accursed, I chance. The vertex wheezes; accustomed to gravity, left floating, knowing, life feels like, alas! I can’t foreshadow much, as to foretoken passions, if to ask a question: Would it matter, would it lose
credence? As it stands, it means closure, a hundred-part movie, to forefeel responses. I know not weather in those kingdoms, I’m close to standing at margins, peering into the center. It manages to become irrelevant—choirs of hearts, karmic chains, thunder clouds. In it all, its fancy music,
cadence, deep reverberation, and sentimentality. So much invested, it seems familiar. In letting a man speak, sensing his feeble parts, getting closer, to affront a man with his doings. To give a soul all he may desire, familiar with his plight, a man repents for eternity. If life knew, such heresy, an invisible person, at dear price—to live partway priest. I wonder if Love is alike to a nun. (Such
infraction vitiates the depth of that.) To live and let live. It was never beyond its castle, to adore where one has pledged, in all the meandering, I’ll keep it clear. It’ll never be for souls, those islands, if to embrace Infinity. To see it in eyes, a place for mankind, too much to ever reveal self.
