Its
life, love, and levels, a crystal ball, floating
somewhere
a
psyche. My soul’s a mandolin, speaking wisely,
at
times,
dearly
distant.
What
is this echo, a star-quake, ever to
pierce
a soul-print.
She
was livid to read it, a mind gone
‘wry,
where prophecy nudged an action.
I’m
thankful for
such
prayer, reaping wisdom, returning such
prayer.
I
ponder
such
interest, where a mind renders, seeing it
ever
and
anon.
I
see an image, a spellic desk, where private
texts
are
open. Its symbol for symbol, a stirring drive,
and
every
word sees. Indeed, a yoke parts a vision,
and
suspicion
plagues an instance.
I
wonder what he sees,
peering
into context, alert to vacuum structure.
I
extend a
prayer,
groaning in private, gentle for the next
phase.
Know
a
river is fluid, a spirit is smiling, and prose is
mental.
It’s
ever a challenge,
semi-undone, casting keepsakes.
