those tall leaves, the spoiled
apple, the wretchedness; appellants forged by anger, to trust as loving, to
receive wounds; a vehicle in time, the portrait upon office, closed and
claustrophobic rooms—lesions appear, ghosts at best daylight, more frustration
becomes penmanship; losing discourse, at hells for ruined, accustomed to rhythmic
skies.
it’s been hot, sipping lava, afforded
one Cross.
reaching for felicity, failing her
enterprise, felicity isn’t simplistic.
it was cold that evening. we knew
the winds were blowing. I came back to ask a question. flesh of my flesh. accustomed
to swimming deep ocean, debating plates, so tectonic. some elements seem
incoherent, like demented, the journey, if asked, can she say it was intentional?
angels meant for goodness—the waves
in airs—too many sensations.
to realize the flame, to sense a
breach of titles, with answering key questions.
it was still in mazes the place of
the will, the sin of the tugging.
Love is complex: a parachute, or an
anvil. winning favor might come with a kind gesture, something lighthearted and
detached. something unthought, thus, natural, coming across that way. in the
subtlety of the problem, the mistake, the solace in the aftermath—the loss
inside; to ache forever, to find joy, nothing alike to finding bliss; the mess
of the paradox, so close, it’s eerie, and it can’t be guzzled.
