I was a kid inside. With looking at footprints. Ink bleeding. Such becomes abominable. Keeping secrets from self. One appeared today. In all my understanding, I missed understanding. Over watermelon with lemonade, watching identity, aware of influence. A man wishes to live. He knows he lacks ultimate control. He thus acts as if. I saw a sightless soul. I walked deeper into my mirror. It rarely carries correlation. Many ignore that. What if all of it is for naught? So bleak. Such murky skies. While knowing all of it means life, inching towards liberty, imposed upon by Nature’s Will. And I like her essence, with much refuting our cries, in these days, feeling linked.
Most are paying attention. I never fathomed the tyranny—wondering why souls tremble. Instead of opening to infinity, one might have a time with finitude. —for times are gray, made transient, to invest in life with utter exhaustion. I just guess, I suppose. Wondering what makes a soul live—to enjoy essentials—to feel satiated—to adore relentlessly. The disappointment of souls—asking for concrete, wrestling over contrast, abstracts, too many froward memories. BUT—watching is life, participating is existence, aching becomes depth, such frightening reality. Someone taught a soul.
(We will both fail.)
And Love had excellence, where anxiety is in fears, such salacious undertones, surefire appetites. Gazing as men do, said a fraction of her emotions, threshed inside.
