Hurting

The flower of the soil, not curse but I am same, not cutting ~ beings lie The flower of my eye, seems only thy contention only seeding in reply! What grows in longing symbolizes try, befit with wronging, nurtures less imply. Some grace befits an answer, asking why love seeds it's error firstly, but to die! As all man contemplative risk deny am I thus overstated, nay, but nay! This truth congratulaltive feels no wry the heart left but to ponder, finds it's sky ~ still deep inside its hurting . . . frees its cry!