I
never cease to imagine a dungeon where a baby is left: cold steel/watered
floors; thick messy cobwebs; or indebted to semi-functional addicts; such
craving/resentment, or a pleading adolescent, while it seems existence by its fine:
precious moodiness, or by an altered/flexible personality, where instincts
become predicaments: uncaged, but self follows, a free soul carrying a caged
bird: so much faith, or dark disappointment, where it’s hard to partake of joy.
to become an adult, boxed or spatial, with a little bit of science hurting
deeply: pure dispersion or hyper-discernment where life is part disparity. such
casual generation as to rev into memories where one says something dismissive: “I
did my best. I didn’t do you like I was done. You didn’t go through much!” so touched
to assert violence so much to wonder for kids where we depend on resilience:
such cascading behaviors by richer disjunction while smarts become a need to
express: (so normal for most, so explosive for ‘others’ where a tear might
taste salty.) can’t unravel us can’t dismiss orientation while a son is
indebted to them: such benefits! we never speak it. while, if filtered rightly,
one becomes a greater machine: to wrinkle destiny, or to unveil motives, or our
cliché, if but to aid others. perfumed sadness, internal madness, or dark
healthy lights.
