It’s
but a glance, a playful war, to transform energy. I’m a
vat
of coffee, to stream a vineyard, communing with Hindus.
We
chime like nature, to rill as mystics, plus a vehicle; and
what
for stars, a valve of Zenists, to morph through yogis.
I
love it, to feel it, a slew of dusky lights; for want of love,
to
private affairs, geared through illusions. We vet reality,
to
sit a room, to feel through chakras. He woke Aum, to
chant
Venus, a tad bit isolated. It’s but a glance, a gentle
war,
to rake religion. I know a queen, a horror for maya,
standing
but a fathom—my mind. We mingle a vast life,
webbed
but a soul, to launch for chi. I welcome this mind,
a
muse to a mirror, to feature but Self. Oh for image, to live
a
talis, for such as that. I am for Am, a likeness born, to
do
as He does; and what the Passion, to
stream through
currents,
to venture to Krishna; for Brahman a fuse, the
earth
of Buddha, a swirl of fevers. Oh to
vanish, to stand
where
she stood, to nurse for wounds. Its primal instincts,
for
civilized souls, to question existence; and much a mind,
to
chime through winds, a vest of concentration; for love is
law,
as raw as self aflame, as bold as psychs.
