I am burning like a tree in a wildfire!
It’s like I have to burn and become char,
so that I augury new seasons; the death for life!
I know I want to be livid, but, at times, too tired!
There is a lump in my throat! Would the invectives
keep pouring out? Do I have to feed my rage, and my
sublimity, too, in turn, to go downstream in the
slipstream, to garner the wherewithal to struggle upstream?!
The choices are not always lucid; in fact,
there is an oblique extraneous distinction that
seems to want to permeate what is strictly
endogenous to me. Like that warrants that I am a prisoner to
myself, because of the corruption of others. Should that be
my sepulchre (albeit profane) due to the prestidigitation
of others; a sleight of a friend enabling my folly;
since there is a lack of safe spots for me to depend on.
And I know my continual death; which is incidental to
my predestining; even if I am helplessly predisposed to
the evil, because I have been generous and patient.
I am thinking that I could borrow the red spot
of Jupiter, and storm the bastions; though I feel comme ci
comme ca about anything red?! And should I be dead (?),
because too much wisdom and too much sacrifice is
considered altogether preternatural. I should be warning you
all of my disgust! But I am given to thinking, that I am far
above the comedos, like a lyric that knows itself too well,
despite the relentless effort to beguile me by all that evil
and to trivialise my righteousness . And I ask myself,
stoically: Is life worthy of anything like love? Do you have to
hate to teach others the value of true love and truth and
justice? Does love teach you to live, or teach you to die?
