It
mirrors us. It intensifies. It taunts a response. We drive
wings,
to flap wings, grieving in private. It’s universal,
made
for privy, but kept a secret. I asked a yogi a main
address
and she pointed deeper. I asked a mystic for
whom
and she scribbled Spirit. We chat and provoke
and
run a gambit. It catches an attitude, and feigns a
voice,
to speak for others. It hassles; and not it: a fleet
of
ghosts. We wrestle, to build on morals, contending
for
one immoral; and silence, a non-retreat. It’s adept,
to
opt for stalemate, and pushing pieces. The table is
slanted,
to speak her name, where checkmate is
invalid.
We lose for balance, to feign for friends, and
resume.
It cringes, a place distinct, while it advances.
Others
appear, a rough language, pushing for violence.
“What
of; What if"; and so forth. We feature a talent, to
endure
a force, a repeated cycle; but what for, a must
surmise.
It’s a therapist, even a medicine, to mimic
behavior.
It’s preparation, even prophecy, to gauge
tomorrow.
We ask for knowledge, and feel response, to
peer
into Spirit. It speaks to voids, a must address, prior
to
eruption. We disagree, to opt for friendly, to feel for
havoc. It may smile,
a bit possessed, and all belief.
