there’s a downpour the rain is raging such soft/wretched regrets. there’s a pouch so filled so inflated while people use us. I have tasted sea salt, reaching depth those weeds, too frozen to repent. the death of the adolescent the molested child or memories blended into wishful thinking; as erasing hardwood or fire-metal as a soul disenchanted. I have forgiven what I can’t forget. where thoughts generate numbness, while one assists another on pure understanding. it was irregular to meet her. she used to live as sawdust. she speaks so clearly concerning roots. a man is sullen or walking his bridge where he ignores his calculations; for what changes—in dear fatigue—while it remains as it’s fulfillments?
we tailor our lives, or we seem to ignore our lives, where we complain in essence.
so benthic our souls such early lessens while most eyes are satellites. I roamed alleys traveled fields as stray animals followed a far distance; so many dressers as counting drawers where anything seemed interesting. I pitched rocks as breaking mirrors accumulating three lifetimes of curses. our superstitions our fairytales our interior misprints. a soul at wit’s end, but far too young, where he missed school to watch closer.
the wheat is filled with yeast, we must watch the yeast, while majority are inflated with yeast—uncured pursuers or relaxed citizens while most of us are targets. so confusing, as never a glance, into something proving its authenticity.
I was enwoven while orientated to sense where screws are rusty—those unscrewed bolts those nails slipshod or hatchets following us with neediness.
a
man is inconsiderate a woman might be vicious or we see two have gone through
deep healing.
