To have capacity to adore, certain tears, baffled by gods; tender creators, such human excellence, to connive in sheer distress.
never completely at balance! crisis of complaisance.
(I was once younger: to look at you hurts.)
It vanished in a blinking, and it meant so little.
Such rubescent pleasures is a curse. So neat by core essence, so nascent by origin, if to die three patent lives.
And you would be freer, feuding against scripture, a song to its tribunal.
(I would negate so much in time, thrown to sharks, accursed for being absent.)
So much remains at a distance,
remarkable disbelief,
in a sudden flicker, aflame the arts.
never explore it. it’s fatalistic. and I feel pieces slipping into darkness.
With force, identity is a lifelong excursion.
In summation, life is rushing by.
