It feels uneasy as it chances. It sacrifices itself, its feelings. In seeking closure of spirit, the wound opens wider. Some pains are timeless—they pulsate. And this line of poesy collects unpopular accolades. Indeed. Something is wrong with that acclaim. To possess values, to give all in believing, trampled by ideals, asking for correctness. It reeks of uncaring winds—in total disregard, it seems new aged. Souls demand victory, made possible with cooperation, such anguish between spirits. A soul faced by confrontation, musing upon confusion, marinating in frustration. To see it’s universal; to hear self, mumbling clichés. Love is a relic, a charm, made vulnerable. Thus, love is a field of battles, a river of casualties, a few excellent manifests. A person is made wise through familiarity; a person is made unwise through eagerness. If two cherish similar virtues, facing warfare palm to palm, we imagine they can withstand existence. Such promise, into a vortex, escaping life, as it would seem; availing in time, rough through patches, unending entanglements, restudied forgiveness. In essence, a soul is dim, to feel strained, as days are lengthened by passions.
