there’s
more this life, abandoned to shame, and hoisted out of mire; there’s more this life,
the freedom of joys, that moment unconscious. we love through stimulus, this
vulture at our souls, waning and wafting sluggishly; we live through
heartsores, to morph into happiness, to return to this beingness; we complain
at seldom parts, the fortune of strangers, unaware of the measures. if never to
feel this craving, spawned in a cave, the angst would overwhelm; if only in
spurts, as consistent as windmills, the lull of rain would sleep; as if
eternity would feature a continuum of bliss, which would affect the apparatus
of pain, sketching us into a stupor. if only for joycalls, this life as numb as
too much sorrow, which entails an
esoteric contradiction; for it’s not all tender, where art ruptures on impact,
the lull of this deep rooted anguish. we see this in literature—to read to the
point of enthrallment, where rain is resting soundly; we see it in love—pulled
from deep the shells, to crack open a cocoon; as too see but a word, feathered
with influx, can shift a countenance. we perish the absence, to wrestle
dispositions, whereat a rose withers awaiting incarnation; we live the
presence, of this fierce reality, as metaphysical as a smile; we’re lilting
between extremes, to stumble upon wisdom, to meditate the sudden enlightenment;
we’re then the kiss of forces, chiming through independence, aware of something
lurking. some are to converse—even for the first time—to feel outwitted—by this
touch of self, the petals of a tulip, to reason through propositions; but what is
this life, filled with consensus, to offer the best concepts; to flourish until—the
soul reasons further—into the recesses of needs?
