Its
tribal affections, the course untamed, to chew up reason and perish—ever this
life, to shift the comforts, where pain controls; to feel the fitful, that
closer gone, to ravel the mind, to nettle the soul—and weaning sorrow, to push
for grandness, to feel a deficit.
Its
mystic rills, to enrich the heart, snatching out shrapnel—that much confused,
to utter love, and shred a soul; the growth of passion, to keep the composure,
scarce on wildness; for rain is lethal, to know the dungeons, to find for fancy
the nearest lecture.
Oh
the yogis, spinning in secrets, a novel of events—pushing and pulling, to
furnish a mansion—that’s deep within, to unlock sensation, to rev an engine;
where steering is mystic, to paint the frontier, as sublime as the clad of radiance.
We
shift and sail, the mental fray, to coax the Ghost—in which is grit, to aim for
symmetry, to grapple with reality: the pains, the joys, the flux of both; whereat
are tears the canvas made right, to know the internal struggle.
We
loved in fresco, the ceiling bleeding, to feel the indwelling—and crawled to
Yah, that close to formless, to drink the rain; whereby the droplets, akin to a
wine-cellar, trekking the winepress; and mother cried, the heart of purgatory,
sitting as a newborn.
