They often pretend not to be nearby. They’re right there. Acute awareness. Interior negotiation. I was long into an ache, created by souls, to have arrived at your compass. The damages done; the future on hiatus. And Love listens, more skilled than some, forbidding the darkness. I was ignoring feelings, a deeply held strategy, where you arose in a cloud. I had it incorrect, the face of time, making waves, manipulating motion. You just came to mind. I swept it away. It came back. All I’ve suspended, is all I have. The laws are daunting. Who can measure? Grace is uneasy, most are unwarranted. I imagine less and less; boxed into reality, if I’ve uncovered with accuracy. By devilish deed: what a soul never fathoms: hoping for eternal interest. I no longer debate it. Plainly put, most dreams never see fruition. It was never my space, those charms, exhausted and passing forward. One tacit possession: hearts beating with legends: so fluffed, so billowy. To walk in mind, captured by fancy, threshed by violins. To praise vocality, as one raves over religion—sore hearted, disputed gusts, forbidden winds. As casual opposites, thrown into devastation, abased, resurrecting, finding excellence. And more to debate, terror to focus—chaste in a vision, thwart by cultures, framed by a musing, ever and anon.
