There’s
magic, to live connected, webbed—through illumination. It’s not a middle—for
ups and downs, to feel an ocean. It’s more a soul, to filter souls, driven and
moving through souls. We levitate—a world of yogis, threaded from different
traditions. We wrestle midnight, a delicate gem, chunking bluegrass. We live it
born, to strip a mask, semi-affected. It’s all a stage, to yearn for souls,
ever to unmask. May I see, to read for notes, carving trestles? It’s sore
admission, cleaving oak, screaming goodbyes. We die at every turn, an ornament of
joys, stifled by confusion; and more for love, to enter souls, to carry such
weight. We love it gray, to paint for pain, to alter a coin. It’s somewhere
deep, an actor’s voice, building staircases. I’m quiet for touch, to sense for
shifts, tiptoeing a case of eyes. We rake a soul, defying reason, ever to
maintain secrets. I want for heart, to seek for more, needling warm textures.
Its art a seashore, sipping russet wine, masters of illusions; and something
for color, a steady process, even a spirit; and such reward, to levitate
higher, where fingers lock. We live it light, to strengthen minds, to pinch an
invisible soul. I shift an art, to trot a mountain, to buff a mirror. We’re
more for soul, striking ember, tearing through a furnace. I watch to feel, and
feel to watch, sketching a canvas. It’s beyond self, a piece of self, melding
with selves. We’re ever a touchstone, to test a touchstone, welded to
touchstones. Its beams of love, a psyche aflame, driven through a forest. I
search for being, somewhat frail, to
surface through storms. Its inner valleys, psychic wings, a wealth of vistas. We
live it shorn, an image torn, filled with illumination.
