Must
we feel this moment—to live this moment—or act
as if this moment? It’s a combination of moments, found in this
moment. There’s a chimney filled with
smaze, a trope for souls; where shovels dig, to sort the soot, a legend for
eternity. I feel her watching, even a
swan, and slightly agitated. She wants for harmony, to never see tears, to heal
for souls; in which is pureness, shadowed in naivety, to journey this world;
for words are motion, channeled with grace, where often tears trickle—and as
for beauty; but maybe more, she yearns for pureness, even tears parted in
rubies; whereat are smiles and handkerchiefs and bubbles made of diamonds. I
kneel for this wealth; but more to see, a sudden shift, stationed in serenity;
where motives pierce—in favor of peace, to change a culture; in which are
stars, for spacial dreams, to wrestle intentions. It’s not for stress, but rather blessings,
to get beyond acting; for rarely we capture—a treasured sensation, unless for
young—unless through actions; for often the seas are still, a feeling for
stagnant, to act as if. In acting—we find motion, to generate
feelings, to tiptoe symbols; and that for acted, becomes that for truth, a
station to act as if. This speaks
not of some, to speak of all, where some live for moments; to be there, in that
moment, to respond without acting; where moments wither, to act as if, frightened of hebetation; but rarely the young,
unless for training, where normal is acting (to act as if); or rather acting is normal (to feel as if), to bury
a person, for something is lost. This
for dreams, where normal becomes a sense of low, unless for acting; whereat are
notions, to mix the bowels of normal, to maintain balance; else for slanted,
forever an act, a loss of authenticity; unless for this, a grand thought:
acting is authenticity. I leave it to
a swan to sort through the properties.
