it screams uncertainty, something delirious, as words climb symbols. it listens deafly or dormant or dreary.
I have died a
little. I try to keep positive. but there’s a voice, it’s part of society,
plus, it’s genetic.
this box this cedarchest this forest; as leaves die, as sirens fury our cities, as a ninety-nine-year- old woman waters her tomatoes. so baffled by endlessness. such petite understanding. while living is a conundrum. but aside to words or more to existence, where I ache for reentrance.
I would connection or glass unbroken or terrors such love those exospheres. to demand clarity to re-voice its inner phone, but an inrush of your identity.
by crypt-keeper by herbs at exits with ignoble miracles—a man that might die or spread wings if but tender an essence in kindness. so cagey to fish such literal violence, where one speaks to cushions in an aggressive touch. so much to cache so much to sky-daisies as a creature abrupt—her society is watching! as a plea upon ear-drawn seas to find us tucked securely.
it should passion in a lost second to sit wishing upon a well. if art is sorrow or pages are inkless—how have we much persistence?
it was death to error or deeper details while fleeing into solace; such arms as bleeding such scars as whispering while such indifference is shown between lovers. but an agile voice but wombic eclipse our dying ever glowing such dear existence. a man to ineptness an ax to his doubts where sweetness seems so necessary. at wrath inside, so detailed, so tragic, while I yearn for more its depth. by slumber of its carnival or clowns in parade while dear existence is our paradox.
