We
kneel for an awning,
beyond mere traces,
aloof to channels.
I
disappear, standing near, a hunt for clear.
It was once naïve, and partly so,
for myriad reasons.
I
stressed to feel, unlike petals, to perish gently; and parish
eyes,
to live religion, probing this dream. She took the
hem,
a young swan, beating drums; and more for heart, a
furnace
therein, a woodcut prayer. I felt erased, chiding a
thought
of pliers, and churning within. Some exult it not,
where
others praise it solely, a vehicle peaking. We squeak
and
suffer and lose reason. It’s a hard debate, to showcase
experience,
where a soul is flinching. Why for how, to
witness
death, and by design? It’s much a maze, a veiled
power,
to see it flicker. To live it—is to correlate truths, a bit
esoteric.
To feel it—is to reach a soul, to see for change. I
hear
the doubt, to run for aimless, to confront a mirror; and
I
see for wit, a need to peddle, a longstanding view; but
art
for souls, to feel it flee, where a friend was just testing.
It’s
a mini-hell, to chastise a heart-chakra, reaching for
moments.
We run; and “Why for me,” sailing the five senses;
but what for good, a
night smiled upon, and journal’d?
