weeping into
darkness. unburied. “many will dislike our kind.” by trials, shames, and social
faux pas … i have to win over—what was disenchanted. by raft, in spirit,
sitting, feeling an imprint. nowhere in life, a quality alike to souls, an
ability to separate, to become objective—without being cold. waging war on
essentiality; removing self is impossible; adoring comes naturally. similar in
kind—an aching for worshiping, by agony to place on a pedestal—by indecency,
albeit, an option, or need for innocence. i needed what was given. such
platonic necessity. it seems unfair to discount reality; floret passion,
in-body negotiations, undefiled beliefs—so promising, so false, defiled,
nonetheless. it shifts levels … into pits of sadness … by an insecurity, upon a
visual, a person denied another human being. such humanitarians, until, upon an
interior mirror, to feel too human—no greater weeping!
