Weaving Purple Night

I would jettison a poem in trying to believe. I must admit, I stand accused. Such ripe feelings; to force a feeling, to face a drought. Mind invasion, such distraction, if it means something compelling. I wouldn’t in such a vein, as needing reality, where anxieties are forged. I awoke one morning, crying in dreams, such moisture from eyes. I fear to assert it: everything is manipulated. I find a pain in effect; to cause one to love, as to feel emotion by such love. Indeed. It makes little sense. A soul worked on from intestines. (I would like to select whom I love.) The fool in me! Something so sacred, so intimate, to awaken one day and know for terrors. Love is an ache. Love is baffling. Love has skies, interior rainfall. As many will cherish, and many will fall, surreal magnetism. I was with a second of privacy, to gaze at a watch—seeing life as maze, as glitter. I opt out. I don’t see it like surety. (And Love is by glamour, certified ecstasy, needing indemnity—those wildflowers, those swamp wars, upon a mayfly, in mimicking a fallen warrior.) Aside a promise, to write for an audience, as opposed to making salt. Watching and building up nerve, to adore with excellence, to need something growing inside; as it gives life, marble texture, caricature & joys.