It’s
art to flower pain, heaven to feel joy, and independence this middle world; as
chiming with Mother Life—this portrait on a star, this vest of determination;
to capture freedoms, a portion of this puzzle, where footprints indicate war;
but it’s art to blossom rain, as fuchsia dreams, needled through illusions; as
to alter reality, this deliberate chase, if only to knit a perfect knot; as to
untie art, fevered in night-motions, screaming while groping mirages. We’ve
known angst, as to treasure freedoms, as deserts were sprinkled with cinnamon.
We felt it subside, to get lost in adventures, where it appeared swiftly: that
tender feeling, as to hope with fervor, challenged more this ocean of dreams.
Its muffins and miracles, inching towards freedom—this adjacent charm; as
civilized as chance, this anchor of visions, to hope beyond recognition; if
only by law, to put forth palms, as charged with actions; to have this life, a
house of feelings, a child to mold; or to have this urge, to fountain a garden,
plucking through weeds and snails. It must be freedom, to set us in motion, as
an ultimatum towards justice: this casual freedom, as born through rights, as
given through literature: as to know through learning, that Jimmy’s bike was
stolen, and moreover, that this is wrong; to know through value, this thing to
fuel romance, that paradise is a mitten of gestures. It becomes evident—this
life of wisdom, where that that was learned becomes our freedoms; this essence
for arts, the necessity for rules, as to reason through consequences; ever to
know—that if such are present, than freedom is void of its properties; for
consequence points to a lack of freedom; so we focus more—this reservoir of
charms, as to define freedoms; where its ultimate—is but a measure—of its
fractions; as to love in grays, or in angst as a solid plural; where many
avenues lead to conflict, and one leads to augmented joys.
