To
see you, holding a flame, where all is made simple: I’m moved slightly, as one
complicated, as one out of touch. Our innocuous dance, as generating motion,
where gestures are subtle: I follow norms, somewhat aloof, this thing of
attachments. This shouldn’t be life—as affected deeply, by mental footprints;
as drawn to a moment, this fleeting second, as to halt a thought. They measure
joy, to bombard presence, as to offend serenity. I pause and flee, and flee and
pause, alert to sensations: this inner thump; this resonance; this inner
person—watching as to mold, even to learn, as measuring the overseer. We’ve
crossed a line, this immeasurable line, where pulling back is detrimental; for
life is growth, as roots give birth to branches, which give birth to leaves, as
such deciduous parts, this essence of flux, where something is continuous. We
chase this something—this aloof comfort, as it pushes us to deeper heights. I
couldn’t to fathom, the steepness of darkness, a household of secrets; as
raised therein, to find a home therein, as cleaving to something familiar. We
perish this way—as to flourish this way, molding something old with something
new. I must to fly, as grounded in pressures, as to grapple with each wall.
They form through youth, compounded by adulthood, to become one grand
adventure; where love is thwarted, as souls are haunted, wherefore, times are
challenging. I know an image, as too put together—as causing sights to wonder:
“Should I aspire; Are they normal; Is the grass greener?” It’s truly a measure,
by which are realities, to spring forth in May; but this is life, settled in
feelings, as constant calculations.
