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I Am Santo

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She Sees

Whose eyes are these that study you? Whose words are these that spill – that search for your smile and release your feral heart? For you are wild and there is no time for editing.

The first flood of adoration comes unbidden, yet premeditated, a calculated measure of sincerity as if celluloid performance for review in still frame. It pulls at all of your senses and forces a flush of blood to those untamed spaces swimming just under your surface, waiting to be captured by the controlling grasp of confident assurance despite hollow daring.

You are revered, but there’s only a single key to this fertile tumbler and all try despite your turning away with polite indifference. Still, the glances play at being stares and platitudes disguised as fevered poetry place you on a swing that coasts over the fall of a thousand discarded passions, lifting you above such failure and spinning you between the orbit of the moon around this crowded home where you still claim, eyes open and masses congregated for your worship, that these few utterances are gospel of immeasurable purity; flawless in their sway of you to hands that pray to your temple as if molded to purpose and wasted on any other.

Still the phrases are guided together deliberately, methodical blocks balanced to atmospheric heights where they pierce fine whispers of white and invite your climb. Others stack their admissions with ceremony alternating between candor and flexed muscle, employing your disarming entendre as design and your compassion as mortar, only to be found sat among splintered ruin once the ink of assumption smudges and all honors the gravity of self deception.

It’s all half-truths in the wind, their affections and those singular spoken ideals to which your hands cling for permanent purchase so you might turn, dizzied by the heights, and with a heart made of feathers survey a world made complete by your radiant swell, a collective attention undulating below as if a tide under your tender pull. You ask to be loved and the world shifts continents, displacing oceans and birthing snow-capped fangs that devour clouds and clear your view of the endless above from which you feel touched, yet unanswered; a life of yearning fulfilled only by bones and flesh moved by uncertain purpose.

How they can pour desire into volumes stacked on dusty shelves with such devotion welcomes diagnosis as a fool, yet the block-hearted beloved blind to the certainty of your conviction deserves such definition; the lover less a fool than the doubter loved. Unable to recognize the surge at center or unwilling to brave the ripples of electric response, both ignited by her true light, words are managed like digits in an immaculate equation, her glow ever intensifying with the hope that belief, that rarest and most precious of elements, would overcome, fusing them together and forcing an earnest acknowledgement of worth that proves her vision faultless.

To see what's what in the world of Santo

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