He’s
wrong to let it pass and right to engage it not.
It’s
a blue river, bedded with jewels.
He reaches dim lights
and
partial therapies. He finds a rule:
We explain it
away,
but
it’s ever there.
He
remembered his thoughts, to walk his path.
Life is repeats:
the
same session;
a
hint of disdain;
the
same class. We’re
missing
nuances:
a
break through; a new seasoning; a
reborn
method.
He
laughs softly, afraid to show it, an underground smile.
She
comes to, slightly awake, speaking with ease. He
sees
a human, the first for times, chiming in the winds.
They
sit in silence, where echoes chatter, a semi-shadow.
He’s
mocked for jest; alive for soul; and stationed for
freedoms.
They disappear, into a lonely room,
sitting in Satan’s
company.
The shadow dances, staring at distance, to
communicate
a fact. She’s accustomed, and ever mocking:
it’s
but a pain. He shifts, to ponder a teacher, to feel for
wisdom.
The night is coming, and she morphs, to sprinkle
a
yogi. Distance is life, and fairly detached, fishing for
feelings.
He whisper’s a song, to grip for carpet, to notice
reflection.
“They trample,” he says; and she listens.
The
air is brisk, and devil’s roam, where angels sand egos.
She
smiles, and only once, tossing a glance. He’s seen too
much—for
common theories; and felt too much, for trite
replies.
They feel for anger, to jog for thoughts, to capture a
whiff.
It’s barely noon, for an all day session, petting
feelings.
“What
is it like,” she says. He utters—“Pain”—and drifts
soul-ward.
“Why pain,” she says. He squirms, and utters—
“Passions.”
They sit, and forced to ignore, where time is
pitching
coins.
