I
venture to find mind, hiding in crevices, to disappear
upon
contact. I’m often haunted, to wrestle a fox, lodged
in
a vehicle. He’s a familiar stranger, where forces pose as
serpents,
to hassle convictions. I hike a thought, careful to
shun
fears, where energy explodes; and who to tell, for
experiment,
to think himself through; for portals pose
mirages,
a vacuum of illusions, to taunt a slanted vessel.
A
stranger becomes suspect, wee into a morning, a stranger
a
reflection of this mirror. Time lurks as a force, geared
towards
one function, a terror for forward. I am want to
hide,
for weasels take form, to fortune a sense of horror.
It
may be fortunate, to cancel out bedlam, where folly
argues
with vultures. Such is chaos, a running from mind,
to
hear echoes of torment. I pause for states of clarity. I
must
excavate every crevice, to unravel this force, which
whistles
madness. Indeed—for such rarity, through conscious
silence,
to be there for texture; but more an ambush, if
warning
signs fail to blink. We converse, where angles are
sought,
to bells of frustration. Silence becomes refuge, a
need
for return, a need to ingratiate self. Such is tantamount,
to
a pond of angst, where nerves become clocks. I retreat,
where
communion is trespassed, a blended measure.
There
is still for want; a need to harness mind; for such is
a
source of solace. I wander, to wonder, of woes featured in
others.
What of Zen masters; Are they too subject to flux;
Is
mind harnessed as a friend? Indeed, such is magic, to
witness
a countenance, to hear for secrets; for want compels,
an
inner voice, to evade a common fact: Mind is intelligence,
a
feature unto itself. I’m still with need to find him; a
sightless
entity; silent for but intervals. Moments are soon
forgotten,
for chase is pandemonium; where to grapple is
to
fix focus on fevered friction; but I must prevail, where
such
is ludicrous, an infinite task for training; else one for
magic,
or rather a subject, pulled asunder by whims; but
how
to find him: a peeking here; a pulling there; gravitating
towards
itself? I asked a name, to center that terror, tugged
with
mercy. He uttered distractions, to feature a forest,
framed
in misguidance. I silenced thought, a faint retreat, to
resume
a course of action. Its gestures for nods, a shifting
of
emotions, to furrow for brows. Nothing yields an absolute;
but
often for truths; where intention is paramount. There
is
still for task, to trek a crevice, vested in a longstanding
riddle.
