Extranea

life may improve in skill without great reward; yet reward at all may be an improvement; in this case, is skill called mastery? Or in such a position, must one know that this is a simplification to 'I suffer, I must beg', as a a poet at first must find some verse false, and find his heart in his voice, or no life walking in the world?

writing bones isn't always finding the print that drips in others' eyes I find, as though by winding my way through forests of transcience, or some selfish declaration I'm mostly missing my own breath, unless by words I mean a garden, or in speaking I've already accomodated a heart that hurts willingly, or knows the war of following after something more significant than this, as though I know others' voices in my mind, not that they are mine, but rather that my voice follows therefrom, and cannot steal them or attribute its own voice to its mouth, or a mouth it seeks, yet knows commonwise there are ways to fall into a mold in which I speak and do not feel, others finding my garden only bones, which are fragmented from their own path in following a trail beneath the most perfect winters which I'm convinced at times give birth to love 'love rose from winter like a garden'

as much as few know both fish and abyss, the place of attributes and logichems is as rote in idea as one cannot know inspite of following some great storm

so much from inscriptions