Seesaw Hemispheres

the passion would ooze out, the perfection suffocating, the spell transcended.

paint and art, social indiscretions, it took time to figure it out.

at a lower frequency, we dissuade grandness, to embrace regularity.

as said to skies, he was what he was, she too was different; like Buddhist’s cufflinks.

it’s a thinning line, fraught by happenstance, more loneliness than gregariousness.

so treasured. in mind, in desert, in familiar forces—the omens are aligned at gates.

blotting out most of life. holding dear the feeling. most alarmed to have the feeling.

two people can’t get heaven: both are asking for acceptance, unable to deliver it.

she’s ghostly, Love—flaming into valleys, cup over piano; by the gray moon, a bluish oasis, more of a chase to purgatory. something theological, philosophic, algorithms, art, she has vanished … a relic in time!

I admit—is weaves in and out of its very luster—darkness pinned against light—at sibling rivalries—one needed to feel ornament, or exhaust the other.

the tale remains untold, unspoken, a ploy in a lab, a tale for laughter, with motive in just outwitting time. it dawned months ago, I was tampering with sadness, crossed over into a cello, the flute was attentive; (I will be sincere, some know it is excellent—the volume of the indenture, to ask—if it matters so much, why not address what counts, what hurts? it was intrusion, unexpected waves/pain, to have led to an impasse; by the garage are bags; by the bags are emotions; by the emotions are feelings uneasy to master: it is understood as twofold, recruiting and repudiating—which will hurt more?)

in tidbits the calm is uneasy the feral lights are made apparent—many courts, social pride, a family of seers—to decide on measure, as in value, while displeased, as siding with loyalty.

some would utter the phrase, “Whether right or wrong, we go the mile.” this sounds difficult.

the strengths were attacked. the silence was made into disdain. the sly points have no meaning—not in activity, but quality of texture, where we become pathologies.

time will change us. we will not need more than what we weave. passions will soar fair enough.

(I don’t debate it anymore. tell one what fancies one. clarity leans towards perception. perception is a seesaw. the seesaw is up and then down, it requires weight and projection.)