I go from intimate rain—to secluded in a whim; jewelry roses, battled feelings, looking at loss too often. Like God reincarnated Job. Many dismiss the gamble. Who was really winning? I get to praying, it feels cathartic, if to persuade another to try it. I keep catching visions. And others are oblivious.
So cross-cultural, no one wishes to face it; cages keep chasing. This is the reality: souls carry infinite glitches.
And over around a dungeon, under an inner prison, to debate over how love will die; such a lost art, so many trying harder, if to reach what never reaches itself.
Free the spirits. Unbox the fallen souls. Possess the carcass!
Daily at thoughts. So tired of what I can’t fathom. Knowing something is askew.
I was introduced early; never was an adolescent; too grown to listen. (Ain’t been there, I respect that.)
Love was sullen, still business, still performing, standing stalwart: Love was filled by debates, caring for her soul, trying to maintain faith.
Tell him, I was going through it. Tell him, he made the right decision. And visions keep coming.
