To exhaust a feeling, wondering, would it be golden?
Moet and apricots, giggling like life is funny.
Wandering ghosts, old feelings, memorized, it gets intricate.
Tired of shedding tears, known to stand solid, while dying, nonetheless.
Where it matters, more data, labelled swiftly, we need closer investigation.
To imagine being careful, to imagine lasting arts, listening to voltage, wondering what the attraction is—mentally lazy, should’ve known—never a silver platter without adulterous silverware.
We, as future leaders, know when something has life; a curse upon the phantom, phantasmagoria, blessed to have life; to share it, at deeper seconds, a thought comes to mind, like amazed to have existence; indeed, blame the juice, living in sin, made holy, everlasting in depth science—the fire for yogis, anxiety for unknowingness, terror for mystics and excellence. Was it different? Watching a dead man; some type of connection—to an inner-outer realm; so slow to love me, so quick to slave me, thirsting like a maniac.
Aphotic lights, photic darkness, to blend realities so close to feeling ostracized.
To see you in there, pissed off in there, damn saying nice things.
Rather tell it, rather one knows it: damn right it has an effect; loving passion, give a care, it’s not my business.
