We met silenced by beliefs. Of different cultures, teeming with storms. Mind-magic would erupt; cadence wasn’t dancing. I see how one won privileges. Raised to become a mantis; rebelling to unveil silence. I was measuring a dear secret, one that makes a soul aggressive, realizing a desire, to feel incredible, as opposed to powerful. Each page is fragmented; each portrait is made partially; each river rages in baptisms. I was loving, I’d suppose; no matter a feeling, I alike it to incompleteness. Too implacable, so fastidious. To drive a soul; to alert a soul to incompletion. By responsibility, an onus in time, to know for drifting, to have met eye to eye, or better, a situation forbidding such anxieties, thrust nonetheless. To hear it stated: “It will never be.” To go through life tenderly going through hells. To imagine—this is how it should be. To then suggest—this is love. Open my book, it lacks an overarching arc, one theme, as if—souls are ordinary, or confined, like change, variety is a sin. So much of life in one utterance. Trying in arts, if science is goodness. So religious, as detached, harping on core meaning. And Love was with troubles, each day is a war, to realize some are in a gray space. This becomes reaching, extended into something esoteric, to merely mention a curse.
