a wandering, less
in familiar forests, dark
and disparate. some seeking
of information in form
and sensation: a new season.
a different bridge
spans that unknown river.
we navigate. construct.
into frontiers tears precede.
a life as wholly capable as this.
a love unwrit by broken lives.
to carry a dream
unfulfilled unto its own illusion.
we cannot understand, even
with wonder.
eyes closed, leaping into
a crazy abyss.
the way we commune. consume
those flames of unrelent.
some circumspect
emotion trailing off
into wilderness. still
we follow. who
could write such intrigue
without narratives of circumstances
dictated? by some innocence?
love is a transgression.
we crucify ourselves nonetheless,
seeking redemption, some
form of understanding. even
where none is forthcoming.
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