By measure by aesthetic, some arts are fancy—loving at
a miracle, speaking to old sentience, a picture in mind, never an answer—waves,
supposed ventriloquists, a man paid dues for immortality; met at a club, frenzy
designed, revenue and wings—too much spending. I knew majesty. Life was simple.
Too much thinking, and Love said it never could be. Most claiming fantastic,
stuck in feelings, framed by science—a principle, a higher ranking, southern
gold, California wicks—so cold on it. One will interrupt you—seeing determination—angered,
or some emotion, bled dry, trying to get it back, a great deal of oxygen; and
Art was bold, Love was considered, most labelled esoteria, asking for mercy;
some stereotype, generating affection, like a soul racing itself. By admission,
to dig deeper, to permit perception, to go with sequences.
