based
on experience or familiarity a person might discern signs. based on training or
pain a person effuses their heart. (I’ll root for you in spite of anguish where
truth is not a friend.) it wiggles into perspective. it’s argued by boundaries.
it depends on receptivity. the maelstrom is hectic those lines blur where
existence is unclear. to conjure distressors or to occupy realities or to sell
tickets to one’s elegy—such dark leopards or lakes with ripples while a man
knows demarcation. to have looked so silly to have begged the unmoved mover or
days settled into indifference—where emotion swims it comes to its surface it
sits in its vessel. I imagine smelling where spices are distinct, this, too,
belongs to feelings; to sense a behavior coming from within as to determine
what has triggered it. (I have watched deception, while it’s suspicious of
reception, where it still behaves according to its selection.) it’s rude to
assume something, while we often presume something, where actual hope doesn’t
mesh with actual reality. I feud with self over mental pamphlets as
experiencing self-generation: those fussy discussions, such deliberation, as to
determine forgiveness is not suitable—unless a loved confidant or a lover or
something with more to surrender; or to love too deeply, as to expect
disappointment, or tied to a section engrained in time; as never to venture,
for it hurts with fire, while present capacity is fraught with satiation: as a
false truism, for it never sits with satiation, even the best of self is still
at desire: that daft instrument, those smooth wildernesses, where a sylvan is
filled with skunks. I understand distrusts—at years watching behaviors, where
often closeness hints to dis-clarities.
so
much as tigerwood or ruby-wires where darkness seems so evident. the souled
wolverine or the acrobatic vampire or one suspended in classifications—where one
decides how pliable we shall become.
At
some point, by foggy redemption, we don’t get the heirloom!
