I feel as if I've told this story before.
A boy, trapped in his age.
not slighted by the swift crush of ambivalence. The sky falling before him like a genuflecting servant.
The night rises without a pale fire.
March's soul begs an uneasy question. God can not simply claim his own omnipotence. As a child can not beg himself to know truth beyond his years. We are shackled by the present. Cursed to only be sculptors of the drying clay we call our futures.
Yes I have told this story before. It is about the uncertainty of the past before conception.
Pt. 2
The Post
Out like our shallow feelings, for our lovers our arms can't yet bear the weight of our sorrows and internalized our hate instead of violence. I've not been one to gripe. For I am no one yet to speak of love and hate attained. We are all shallow. Like waters in a puddle. We have to be stepped on a while before our shallowness is gone.
Pt. 3
The Window
Gray as a stone pivot wall
Strong like the suns of ole english priests
The air is a jewel in the sky
Precious as only life can be.
Although we are all doomed to die
An interest in ideals contrast the truth and closes our eyes
We are blind
A shame
Wilderness blinds, Sanity sells.
To be, and to see are to live
like we can.
