We might grapple, such tall walls. We might play it nameless, absent lovers. So much gray matter, so many banshees. I spend time seducing a phantasm; or watching squirrels. We might knit baskets, nibble strawberries, laugh at the inconsequential. It was never us, radical matches. It was ever an adventure; such value in a curse. A passing belief in wires, tiptoeing galaxies. Ever a breeze. Always a schism. When we might share a wilder notion. If to write a tome; if to defeat a tomb; proud to have sung life, nothing would ever be as it was … such destined stars, neat, tidy scars, to pinch something with value. It could be simple: it would ruin us. By dreams, in recognition, trespassing doubts. Piercing thoughts, motion hearts—livid in essence, such beautiful disquieting noise. If it is not evident by now, lead in directions, a soul grapples with affections; so intense, so insidious, measured by graces, at some point asking angels. In seeing it, a deep dynasty, a love for reflection, certain dark pieces of light. Such a glare, rumored to have pains, with eternity glistening. A casual tryst, a neat betrayal, rumbling, rummaging, almost rescued. In seems it never drew water, going through it, sacrificing the risk. To read self, those recreational eyes, always as if, always detached.
