I truly question souls. I think for many, life is sincere, others take existence for a joke: sheer manipulation—nothing is pure, treasured, deserving indemnity: nothing is holy, God has passed away, fire in hearts belongs to mortals. Such incurs jealousy.
Life is what we perceive, until reality proves unpuzzling.
I truly believe in souls—the power found in pains, those pianos, such sullen spirit chimes.
I was old fashion, passe, faced by the charms of pash. Some wraith attacked consciousness; indeed, so nonsensical—and we seem indeterminate.
Love is bold. Just to redeem some gesture. Again: it means so little.
I truly ignore souls. Most aren’t aware of what they desire.
What I seek isn’t there. It doesn’t exist.
We close with flame flickering.
