Knowing each line is a miracle.
Plucking a ross petal is disqualification.
Mind-caves in midst of shrubberies (An Angel’s debut).
Soil absorbs bone. Marrow enters earth.
We never spoke clearly. You would beg to differ.
It really matters. This shocked me.
Such sickness in tales; too disconcerted; human nature betrays human morals.
Ethics continue to struggle. We’ve categories for deviation.
They wonder why some think it falderal.
Wild wilderness. Hibiscus. Old roots.
Old countries.
I suppose after years, it makes an impression.
Wounds. Lesions.
Each compass is different: silence dissipates; time forfeits nothing.
Each step. Just waiting.
Those sharpened eyes, seizing the day, one is relegated to a shadow.
Thrown into it, sound & ashes. To listen & think, to realize—it must insist, it can’t relent, it must attain to total annihilation: this is only repayment.
This is life.
One is pleased to see younger folks—they maintain ideals, abide by ethics, find fault with falderal.
