Let it hit soul and dream the bass to face a man
living—by death of the rule, many years waiting for the reaper; needing to fret
a little, needing a strong belief, at Jesus with heritage. Most would date
backwards, if first than right, if new than suspect, we have issues to iron
out. Love isn’t enough, I have screams, rushing to meet esoteria—those pregnant
souls, with a rhinoceros inside, running, raining, like fueled to die. The last
piccolo, as upon an island, just one too magnificent to battle; into darkness,
files filled with evidence, channels for angels, demons, greeting me at the
funeral. We praise in pain, fueled into wails, loving has been a memory. Toes sweating—arms
light in fever—mind garnering insouciance. A deadly myth, a dear mistake, like
letting go when the dream has diffused. A beetle smell, a turtle’s pace, a
subdued monster—it must get freedom! Beauty leading to exhaustion, mediocrity
craving danger life, superior women feeling indecisive.
