I’m
blue to see a mood shift for mercy. Its meditative sadness
a
realm for ghosts, even immortal flame. I’m torn for remedy
ever
to gear to a halt. Emotion is blunt, a cold kettle, feeling
for
patchwork. It’s abrasion, a childhood scrape, a sky
swirling
without color. I’m somewhere to think of grays: a
compatible
stranger; lunch with friends; and even for
subtleties
of a teacher. We gander at unawares, a tad bit
free,
or rather perishing in silence. I once spoke, to channel
for
life, where lesions erupted as flowers. It’s now a bedded
soul,
at trepidation—to speak the depth of rain; nevertheless,
I’m
doting over welts, awaiting a mood shift, where one says,
“It’s
up to you to sift for joy.” This for level an enquiry:
something
near for surface, where resistance yields fruition;
but
there’s a deeper pleat, a well of darkness, a mystery for
souls;
wherein, one swirls through a state of consciousness
akin
to spacial interference. I’m there—spinning in stillness,
as
calm as sitting winds. For this realm, resistance turns to
anger,
to prove otiose. Such as futile behavior leads to a mind
of
frustration, where illusions pose as seductive goddesses. So
I
stir for tranquility a world wrested by a sense of wilting. It’s
low
to increment for high where a cycle becomes a home.
