It’s
more reality—a bit complex—to see without seeing; where this is lies—forever to
see—to tread atmosphere. Was it pain, to unlock a locket, as keen as gregarious?
I flee with thoughts—but never asked—“Is the sun in me?” I wander yes, the mind
of priests, as gentle as cultivated. They would we perish—to lose the ghost—to
plead forgiveness; where such is grand, when powers are kind—when love is
velvet. I see the beauty, to know for wise, to vet through words—actions, grace
and rhythm. Where was it; ever
buried, a bit for wisdom, floating in stillness? I’m still for lost, searching
but found—the deepest secret. It’s level to level, to speak a truth, in lower
letters. You know for light, as
favored as riches, to run for office. I say but little, for little is more, to
pour forth in ignorance; but more to light, an altered self, spinning through
cells. It’s more confession, to know for truths, where life is windows. You never did, and never would, to see the
flaw. This is art, a scholar for souls, a welkin gift; so more to sections, to
see it grow, a thing found deeply; for more to live, a private law, as blessed
as eagles. I cry to see it—to think a
thought—a bit removed; for all is well, where all is torn, to see for wellness.
I speak for health, a bit unhealthy, to soon rebuke it; where this is power, to
push for forward, to ever change. Oh
the root, even personality, akin to acorns; but more to habitat, to pressure a
course, where unsaid was dying. It makes us weak; where one is fallin’, while
one is pullin’; but never for reason, aside to self, to claim my part; where
thanks is living, to tug a soul, to paint a mural. This is life, to see for
fortune, a bit esoteric; where it ever is, for never was, to respect the light.
