Being

 

 

Being is of self a chase. We contend against worries, moving in sort of a daze. I’m reluctant to address it: affection is pivotal desire. We refute one element in time, confused by what we’ve cleaved to: excellent promise, irresistible internality. I was with want to possess some talent, something charming, still a hope, a wish, for in all assertion, poetry is an isolated algorithm. One 

 

presumes everyone is moved by it, not so. Nevertheless, words probe us. One might adore a given genre, contending against worries, finding solace in literature of some nature. Life is connected to itself and others through memories, a popular theory. Memory is alike to immortality. Indeed, when speaking on living forever, we might desire something more emphatic, more overt. In any respects, 

 

mind is a link to being passed down from one to the next generation. Nothing of a discovery. We’ve lived it. We’ve thus experienced it. Issues remain, nonetheless, breakthroughs have been made. Each person is Yahtzee. Each building is undone for construction. Eyes are on each edifice. To have loved is to have felt life in passing; we desire what has been lost, it becomes mourning. In 

 

soaring in one’s career, one will retire. Here is different. One can join the Board. One might get unsaid Love back. It may flow differently. I’ll address moods in closing. They seem important in determining temperament. Moods seem random, however, often, they can be traced. Indeed! Something unphysical is at play: what is intuition: unphysical knowingness?    

Aging

 

 

What keeps a slanted sentence ingesting auras; better about soaring into a river. The bleeding innocence, souls stood at attention. So much a raw portrait, palatial pains, such restored beliefs. I walked miles into milieus to get close to an image, amazed by the misery we cause self. If it hurt, it feels like living. To ache in storms, hearts warm, such existence meant for ridicule. I stand baffled. It never ceases to intrigue. With so much on brink of disappearing, life continues to bankrupt each existence. (The days are moody. The nights stipple stars, affect memories, a softness to draining out. It’s never without sentiment the racing beauty, feeling lethargic. Moments with an envisioning leaf. Seconds wiping an ebbing tear. Life is uncertain of itself, precarious in tone, a pregnant voice. I was thinking to myself concerning augmenting life. It’s been chilly, and I fret coldness—the gelid currents, just desiring has become a sensation, a feeling, if to search for more light, alone in promenade, mesmerized by subtle excellence, remaining distant, seeing aloofness. One might endure the sentiment, acting recklessly, if to experience titillation—mind proof, no such thing, something is overdue for an introduction. I seduce thoughts. I live part alienated, distant from my palms. I’m tired and satisfied, an uneasy position, while aging is soaring. Many desperate glue sticks, trying to adore each other, slanted like a sentence, affixed like first motion.       

Too Unborn

 

 

The mortal wars against time, such fleeting waves. He desires what he can’t grasp, abusive immortality. With everything to win, he settles for his thoughts. He’ll yen for a desperate curse, if to sing softly. Each round in life’s presence; each sword preventing life. He speculated upon love, fed humbling fruits. If to believe in all things, disappointed by all things. Never aware of it, but riddle confined it. Most have difficulty with reality, in midst of lies, siding with invisibility. (I speak on his life, attuned at its core, sensing parallels—in sin we live, in God we trust.) He’d see an impression—of an image, rectangular skies, an overrated dynamic, a love for what makes her mystic; thunderstorms, pet wolves, million-dollar anxieties; and Love was with arts, undoubtedly giving life to a wraith. He was negligent with kindness. It wasn’t what it became. We never learn; or we learn to see. So indebted to Love; such as when everything goes wrong. We do as others permit. Such is a fable. He learned Love was withering. Years were waning. In oppression, Love discovered life. She wasn’t letting that go. He’d adjust as best he could. She’d keep pushing. The mortal wars against time. And afar, in an alcove, painting a portrait—lives a Taoist, monitoring disbeliefs. So unborn, forbidden from existing, ever a complication, plus, most are jealous of each other—to envision one pining, burning embers, affectionate with multiple deaths.   

Torrential Behaviors

 

 

Those with fluidity, critical impasse. Such a jewel, so great is scrutiny. (They see us coming.) Deprived of ego, such surrendering. Days are explosive without her, seeming normal with her. Such a feeling. I walk, learning to skip—to flit and fly; eyes twinkling, body language speaking, not all will smile. By participation between strangers; given to churning, like prepared to under-soar, in soaring, one anniversary. Life has secrets—no one ever the same. One long party, kisses and joys, thrown into heaven, a soul igniting engine(s). Those numen eyes, an indecent proposal, such a rapturous blessing. It was meant to become impossible, if not, it was meant to become insufferable. What is a gift without turmoil? Soft heat. Sweaty palms. Nape ferocity. So mis-analyzed, so cursed. It tends to be something mysterious, intimate misery. Prose requires so many elements: some days up on high, some days like extracting molars. To have adored in shadow, to look to it for drive, many more restless moments. Amazed by respects. To wither, to fall into a slump, to believe—it’s never enough, it keeps coming, building upon itself. If to rain on souls, if a flood of magnitude, such vicissitudes; tears feel intense, ever a desire, making for resistance—painstaking avalanches, unbearable tornadoes, if to awaken faced by a koan.

Life Passes into Memories

 

 

Prism eyes. Fleshed out miracles. I was younger courting Light. It couldn’t be imaginary; it couldn’t be actual. Some surreal gem giving prose strength. In loving eschatology, in sensing mythology, made actual in surmising life. We find form is powerful, even form and content. With 

 

pash came passion; with compassion came intimacy, so many miles to shivering. A dying man may incarnate, still passing over, still rising from ashes, alike to a phoenix. I wish wellness to Love, so tired of resentment, knowing something alike to resurrection—those topaz cries. In all of what 

 

sustains, touch was intimate, casual even, dire at times. Prism eyes. Sable skies. Frantic rhythms. I said it never feels right; I spoke incorrectly. It amazes how sentiments flourish—even against commonsense; those fleshed out miracles, by burning underbrush, soreness of indecision. I was 

 

with flame, flickering discreetly, at wars inside, coming from humble regions. Fuchsia palms, iron knuckles, brass earth; who told us rules? Such galloping; such beatitudes. So lead to springs, 

 

partaking of paradise, with realizing need, with hagridden frustration—dealing with intensity. Such foundation, those in sparrows, eagle precision, adoring—despite embarrassment. To have nothing disagreeable in heart, making motion, one thought into longevity.  

Ways We Affect in a Whiff

 

Such terrific honesty, afore eyes to see. Over keys, piano reins, porcelain terrors. So wrong in rectitude; confusing confessions. In seeing what was loved, in feeling flame, one was left with doubt. By soul; by culture. Turquoise contour, made ephemeral in spirit, ever so rational, a soul to appetites. Such color, polished precisely, challenge and sacrifice.  A younger essence would’ve died to lusts: pensive penchants sit with maturity. So rare, alike to a spell, surreal and mantic, dice rolling, they fall haphazardly; such is hope, watching what we ask for, mesmerized by flesh. All of what we become is subject to rebuilding, all of what we profess is subject to reassessment. Amazed by influence, when a soul appears. So much appeal; so readily eager; so tenderly moved. It's hell trying to refocus future guessing, one hunch in spirit’s favor, such upkeep, such maintenance. With rebukes made internal to have become rewired. If to harness scales, if to sail seas, if to unveil some mathematical science; neat glasses, all white apparel, such terrific honesty, afore eyes to see. So hauntingly forward; so temporal; so much climbing. It was not meant as it erupted; it dies where it evolved—short spurts of passion, helium voiced, floating as we perish. Over serenity; under echoes. Soreness in tribal measure—courage to impassion a second, to partake of a vision, soul of its ache, ache of its haunting.

 

It starts off impromptu, stemming from a glimpse: metaphysical daydreams, abstract hopes. With images sprouting, with gentle imposition. Trekking valleys. Pleading fate. To envision by whiff of measures: in glancing back on behavior, when affectation was raw—upon hopes, by miracle—each whisper. Loving seems relevant, it should with cache, such terrific honesty, afore eyes to see. Cellos voice bashfully. Violins fill up with fury. In needing what appeared it became affectionate. In desire to realize imperfections—depth of dreams, desperate compassion. Those years aged in dying; small funerals; one final trumpet, one temporal infatuation. (It may be hoped one would affix to soul doing anything to augment passion, a tenderness soul, a fixating on excellence soul, as needed, we give birth to features.) Such terrific honesty, afore eyes to see; desiring gentility in spirit, affirmed in vulnerability, still facing instincts—to battle for perfection, to give all in winds. Sweet helium voiced; fluid incantation. With rebukes internal to have become rewired. If to enchant in passing, concretized in a moment’s action, furry by its passion. To wax so youngly; furious feelings, or analytical emotions, to fall into a fret—over something temporal. Those with experience of fleeting perfections, visceral emotion, cadent curiosity.   

Poetry

 

It was taught to me. It was by emotion, radical expression. It was by analyses. It was alert through intuition. It was churned by intelligence. It challenged reason, affixed to logic. Most adapted a 

 

hostile trajectory. Such affection for it, as it unfolds. So close; so distant; at sectors, most indifferent to it: some type of relationship, damn near an entity. It has sentience—a given life: when going well, such intimacy; when reluctant, such frustration. By a graph those waves, in suggesting 

 

freedom, so spatial, such a false reality, to deceive self, if to create a piece. A serf to it; a rising understanding; Love might have adopted such temperament … those with fever, so furtive, much on display, feelings will shower, snow will fall—summer might be instrumental. If to make poetry 

 

into a fantasy, she dies and resurrects in each line, she resuscitates sentiments, and suffocates freedoms, such responsibility in approaching her castle. To have cherished some property—to have 

 

felt some connection, to have needed some therapy, such autonomy, such slavery, poetry is paradox, so much to adore. Some are for her. Some are against her. An inner inn. A mental intoxication. A graveyard full of letters. Sheer capacity; to make an office; to negotiate over supper. Tragic sanity; endorsing souls—making creativity, such addiction, then a shut down.   

Even Exchange: Am I What I Seek?

 

 

I wouldn’t know how to respond. Those tales; those visions. And Love is epiphany, wounds. I imagine arguments, disputing an obvious point, trying to get it through—something is wrong. I’d 

 

adore as does a fledgling, swept by feelings, taking courage to sing. It sounds familiar. It sticks with us. Unspoken emotion; deteriorating passion. I shall get lost again. I’ll renew what sits beyond 

 

scars. I’ll face the great doubt, defeat the great dragon. In it all, so much beauty, to discount it, pain must run like rivers. In holding to ceramics, hoping they don’t shatter, warring intestines, writhing in agonies, suspicious of breath—darkness, bleak weather, seeking self. I was constructed, parts 

 

were smelted, pieces were smothered, essence was neglected. Something emerged, after decades in the makings. Many see (some) parts are good. Wishing to cultivate those parts. Like an anomaly, 

 

certain responses, they must be wrong, for they don’t fit. We assume intentions are decent, by merit of a given soul. One has vetted herself, far beyond measure. The anomaly lives his life, hebetated in some respects, not desensitized, not quite receptive. Nevertheless, we fix ourselves when 

 

something is missing, if desired: it takes assiduous hours, weeks, months, even years. We rarely see others. We see needs. We see changing persons—if to fit like clay pots. I take no stance. It 

 

can’t be unnormal. Too many are captured by it. (At the masquerade, saying sweetness, with measures being true, a reason in agonies; curse of majesty, mystique wilderness, a fluid forest. If to die one last trial, if to experience newness, a vetting machine, abused emotion. It was always 

 

tragic; it was announced early-on, we can’t outwit instincts. Love is more hypothetical, and certainly dependent on behaviors, with searching for authentic creatures with deep reflection.)

Valentine’s Reflection

 

I’ve been in a zone. To wonder of cries, as in flesh, remaining unvocal. To have pieces baptized. In making body follow mind. In it all, sin of my art, ache of my soul. With everything we adored, amazed how pledges dissipate. Today is for romance. So blessed if comfort is still found. To say something rosy, aesthetic borne, science in attraction: the two are one. Teeming with passions, alike to breathing, ghosts, phantoms, and wraiths. Something holy is taking place; something reified.  (Can’t imagine how one gives another life; can’t picture I fully fathom.)  Been with beliefs, a far cry into faith, to have mercy given: beloved of instincts, armor of a dear spirit. It goes deeper—so messianic, temple of one’s mind, a passing glance, a ghostly smile—rhythm of ages.  With working terribly, with protecting concepts, with children laughing, part oblivious to adult life.  I’ve been in a zone. Love is mythological, in every soul.  Each provision to keep amour. Such a zone. Trying harder. The reigns of humanity; the curses of the blessed. To sigh; to feel loving was challenging. Rolling dice. A friend in soulprint. A mind’s voiceprint. To have understood reality. I spin in a web, nothing graphic, just existence. I adore what I feel, losing certain intensity. I give a blessing to windfalls, to naivety, to rebounding, to cherishing God’s inheritance. In all the giving, such tender reciprocation; zone of my zone, inner gut-phone, days of my life.  

The Greatest Gift Is a Feeling

 

 

Time turns and churns the soul. Such seducing magic. It’s a shame searching for correlation, the guessing is eternal. In making moments. In casting a glance. To looking over a shoulder. Thankful at points, a slight whisper, an iconoclastic feeling, hoping to keep rightness. A path for patience. A planet for spirits. Facing one’s greatest gift. To see Love smile, to hear a yawn, in all the giving, in 

 

all the witnessing. So passed a marker, sketching demarcations, upon a state of phantoms—the heart caging, the armor falling inside—such a weaving excellence. Those times were bleak; it becomes contemplative. By afflatus—unstirred, sudden into intuition. And Love was cherished, it meant innocence, such a fallen miracle—to fail its station, to look up, slice a bit of apple, and 

 

chuckle the pain free. The sweetest of memories, so hellish the outpour, such an outcry—it meant so much—made intangible, all one is left with is whet memories. In prayer—one wish, in feeling destitute, one remedy, waiting at the gates. So grand the exercise, hoping to disabuse lies, self-told, self-made—fret of those screaming plates, in trying to maintain immortality, in fearing those 

 

interior harbingers; surely it was faith, certainly it was allure—those times so intimate, so precise, more penance, more retribution—hoping for a message, wasting life, where nothing is enough. In it all, a misnomer in skies—to call misappropriation favor; to visit in a second, to bring a psalm to life, to unveil Songs of Solomon, asking for reception, begging for evaporation.  

The Medium is Diction

 

 

So elusive, so necessitated, each word is a secret. Trying to correlate both canvases. Too much to determine. Life is lexiconic, and codified. I can’t get closer to diction. Near to light, unveiling kilowatts, trying to become circuits, very difficult, if possible. Such simplistic torches; making existence neat, if possible. I venture to believe you have eloquent, hermetic prose, so much living. I set words forward. They come back. Something is, and something isn’t; such wakeful creatures. Sentences freefall searching for buoyancy. They arrive with all to give; interpretation could be silent. Sunshine is witness. Stars are squinting. Even to get close requires shifts of reality, perception. I noticed inscrutability. Such spoken intensity: a requirement. Human words. Spirit words. Such in passing—to have felt what was insinuated, through interpretation, words rely on what one brings: life of its curse, soul of its healing. I see chasm. I see wholeness. In trying to fly, each will flit, analyzing predicates, in a land avoiding adjectives. So fluffy as made intentional; so cryptic as plainly insisted. Upon an adverb; lovely transgression. To get close to meaning, in a realm of prose, those with genius, those with word science. Through portals and prisms; certain excellent distance; blessed to have drawn a feeling.