Saturday, September 19, 2015

Cave Light

It needed a voice, to wean a furnace, and I hear you saying:
“Is it not better?” I qualm, and qualm not, affected fully;
and such a deficit, a must to fly, enriched for sorrow.
The air has shifted, flipping through a novel—made of
brains. He sung to wade—an unsung Tao, streaming through
wu-wei. I scatter grass, to build for ants, stung sorely.
There’s
parallels to furnish a chateau, as entrenched as bolts and
screws; but this is life, to grapple with mirrors, and concave
souls. We love for symmetry, and frontier joys, to ignore a
background fray. It was never this color, the winds to
shift, where a yogi knits a quilt; but more to trauma, a
man of stages, found stunted, but able to feel. Its paradox,
and so sublime, carving skies. We
perish in youth, to flip through pages, traveling through a
rearview. We meet so few, and measure up so lightly, to
blend into a mural. I felt it not, for never taught, ever to
feel an infant’s palm.   

PS.

    The strength to withstand the winds; a spell as it effects/affects some creature. A sudden moment filled with absolute certainty, so wro...