Love had eyes. They broke silence. The ghost of those mountains.
To seek immortality. To feel cursed.
Life is unthreaded, resewn, unstable.
And we seek sky apparel.
If by schism to find a straight line. A soul is a witness: those dreams boil.
And so many cloud lakes; to wrestle with dryness, to collapse on agreements.
—oh Reality, what is ousia?
The exosphere is screaming. We made a posit concrete. Certain quickness. Certain identity.
So many coyotes. Wolves waking. Sulfur churning. And Love would read, sipping tea, debating Invisibility.
If only by mental ink, scribbling moon ceilings, asking for mortality.
