Same healing process, if it sticks, oh’ paramour. To imagine more than activated. To die a smidgen, running from your soul, desperate along dry desert—ache of its past dynamic—to render an answer to calling a woman holy; some grander schematic, akin to stigmata, as if a man was intentionally obtuse. When a soul witnesses another soul, to admire a spirit, one thinks of no greater thing—to believe it’s universal … to alike a soul to something holy, as ultimate appraisal … never as an insult. A soul would rather be vicious, deadly esteemed for unreachable beauty, an aesthetic disaster. Indeed, jesting is lethal, love is burgundy, to have located a gem. Such demure, though sassy, every time a soul goes out upon a cliff—met with mystery, some cherish such an identity, those more advanced, wished to be addressed as Individuation. Same dress, different church. Most genteel of creatures, most refined of doves, there one goes again. What should a soul say? There are many considerations. If being a gentleman, one is limited. If being a cad, one is hated, to a degree, let souls be souls, we say. If timid, Love passes by. It must be meant, & in contradiction to existence, a soul calls another holy. The pain of a withering rose—arts of an autistic child, whispers of a mystic stream; in decent appeal, to assert, it becomes what in hell it desires, as a thief in his night, as a queen in her castle.
