Three names, by a ghostly art, each breeding Intuition. Such a deficit. Yearning nonetheless. Begging for piety.
A large ass wall: penetrated by faith.
Inner inadequacy: rereading classics.
In need of concentration: only a few are with knowledge, no one knows but those that know.
I try in not trying to speak to you.
When humans are with moods, we reach out.
Aside darkness, feeling a torch, I wonder what souls desire.
The future seems incomprehensible.
Thank Goodness for each Trance.
In seeking the Great Ghost, such doubt attacks, trying to receive love.
Winning in the losing: anxious to laugh again.
So many secrets to war, an art in seduction, made patient to live deaths.
Certain self-prophecy, to exhaust a thought, knowing one I ache is in pain.
