Pain grows with us, although, it can sustain us; rivers of vulgarities, a clean climb, and still, pain is the topic. To have loved was a privilege. To have died in such love was promised. It gets wilder, achieving adversaries, once so neat, the line is so thin. I asked about esoteria, seeking an answer, it was part metaphysic, part meta-science, and conjecture. Through anxiety and cleaving to identity, to become gentle denial. In reality—two loved, two became friends—if uncareful, two abhorred each other. Notwithstanding. Their times were lilies, watered baptisms, intense passion, gnawing at electricity. To soar across cities and travel through alleys—so cured in Love, such false celebration, alike to a man and his proverbs. Riddle me this: When do we become family again? And Love hates parts aloft a scream, so cordial, loathing a holy image—such symbols, wild memories and never so close in a dream. I ponder on reality, unless of use, one will cast a spell—and many have time to do damages. But Love is successes, blurry pains, threaded upon a synaptic gap. I was with some weird feeling, exposed in forests, pieces returning and mourning, to celebrate a soul’s happiness, to wonder about condition. I’ve said little. I was desire for a fairytale—to love like exclusive warriors, to have for existence—one claw. Three fingers, one dragon; to see it play piano, to key eternity, to violin an avalanche. Let God be gentle, I have much to contend.
