They like us slow. A promise meaning so much. An adolescent with round eyes.
To try culture, to devastate dreams, with fierceness in disguise.
I was running, vomiting, bleeding essence; such terrible skies, upon a vision, to have loved like a child; surefire belief, never a doubt, made numb, made into disbelief.
Mirrors surround us, we keep looking—at self, others, surprised by naivety; something could be laughing, or projection, we have time with making reality.
I hear an accent, I see myself, eyes swelling, holding back, made by suggestions. Too much I’d suppose, upon a hypothetical, gazing at some foreign mirror.
In finding you, living in suspension, your spirit most ancient, many having sameness of name, with those years in prayer, to attach to a kindred soul, deeper hauntings.
I can’t justify a thought—dearest of uncertainty, many gripping earth facts; so
esoteric, couldn’t describe it, so enthralled, couldn’t find it, weather is changing.
What happens to mystery? I suggest, it never dies. Maybe a reason to push through, reminded of a given mystery. Not trying for those flowers, not afraid to confront them.
What if it’s both—how to select that? It’s kept underground, until one defines it, we sense where such a one is headed. No more waiting, a dreaded mistake, a fraught ink.
