Prophetic presumptions. In wilder wanders. With trying to understand you. Sheer knowingness, as never a kindled ember. And across seas a soul would perish, disputing goddesses, and it never lived, so it never hurt. Such a darkened cello—to imagine such strings, one wayward arrow. It seems we suggest—one adjust, for another says, it’s apropos. Nothing assertive; just looking at necessity. Like salve upon a palette—like rain into an Ark, like chi made airborne; twilight remnants, colors in hearts, spaces upon moons. And raised to fathom cries, taught to seek answers, threshed by understandings. Such a flawed man—to feel affected, where it alters realities. “Life shouldn’t feel that way.” I suppose it depends. I imagine each group has its woes.
Origami clouds, purple ornaments—big bulbous eyes; so arbitrary—so one-sided, if to believe in it, where would it put me? Upon a viola, to qualm over Paradise, headed into a roaring wind, if all were afforded one vision. Forced to balance it out. Too much in either direction might strike a waterfall. It seems stifling, while it restricts, partway—some type healing agent. The price of the soul!
