oh
for deer those cloudy deserts as one leaps into our kitchen. to gather berries
to cleanse souls to rebuild homes. our triumph in blood such suffering loses
insomuch as we must be liars. “No one shall know while someone leaked tremors
or it was repeated by our habits.” three different lovers, three different
characters, while its omega was deathly the same. it kills by
correlation it refilms behaviors where most prefer a bit of denial. to scratch
a thought or to lie more while we have entered complex anger. more to facts,
our perception of self, where “If they knew me, they would not love me.” sore
or raging, defensive or outlandish, where one tries to control the tides—our
horizon our neat bibles while oceans are carrying whales. if music so tender to
fly into fire while burying a few habits. so loveable those lies so remorseful
the new person, plus, so sullen but raw. to tell the story to glean fruits
while analyzing the remnants. (“They know why, for it was deviation, where
one’s spirit was congested. Such fury in me such laughter out there where I
kept skiing. True rivers as pouring into personality while I just passed a
cosmic test.”) balls bouncing shots attempted where the first basket is
intoxicating. (all we’ve become, as never stagnant, while peaks are often so
much differential—at dark footing or craved sands those motherly whispers.)
