I have a taste for patience.

But I rarely savor a taste. I know, as the ephemeral wind blows sublimity from due hosts to charlatans, the possibilities alive in plums, currants, cloves, and poison. I know taste, and afflictions rise in attraction, and they smilingly assume an old grief, always older than older griefs

This intuition is known by mirrors, and by doing I urge an undoing

For you, too, does the clever slide of her leg against its other, weightless, burdened, walking to you and from you, touch a tempered and singular string? The soundless pluck, splashes on this water of many colors; the red is an anger and a passion, a reminder of the undying lament still with a pulse

Describe the timbre when your eyes scream into her eyes, and ask her with their silent struggle, if she might save you:
Will this bravery swelling in this moment survive this demon?

And will you ever walk the Plank without curiosity
And can you withstand its brief fall as the whispers press harder than the final sigh of God