We need extraordinary verses.
Trying to keep up with it. Gelid miles,
cogent walls. A fever at times, said
distant at moments. So much to humans,
trying at humanity. Dry deserts.
Cactus stress. It was nice to feel parts, so
infatuated with it. A life after
itself. Like hearts can’t hide. A soul is a tornado cast to seas looking for closure. It was hard to love. Time kept running. I see parts of it, demanding its legacy—birth of skies, or empty space. Each soul is immortal. It’s difficult to think otherwise: that deeper self. I wander down thoughts, wondering about more, presuming, as a necessity, more is inevitable. Some are pleased for a time, once made familiar, some things grow dull. I don’t imagine finding the more I seek. It might not exist. Others might fall into it, assuming a position, a little touch of heaven. (The mind mocks itself.)
No need in speculation. Most anything
was first a conception. I envy souls
that’ve figured life out. Makes one wonder.
It’s critical indifference. It seems definite. I gather feelings, see science, a few are gorgeous. To need to embark on a journey; to need a certain combination. I envy those madly on heaven’s grove. To pass through, as passing by, relegated to memories. Mislead. It must be celestial, insanity, to cherish beyond understanding, to adore surpass all wisdom.
