There’s
a pile of pain—collecting debris, if unattended. Its nurture/nature, this
spotted grief, to celebrate the moments: the guts of favor, a son’s
sportsmanship, a daughter’s art exhibit. There’s a pier of pressure, guided by
a rudder, to run a rope too far; where anguish dines, for souls to rebuild,
even to change ships. The squall is hectic; to hear,—“Be still,—the swamp of tides.”
We strive for closer, to witness souls, a bit intractable; but this is pain,
the guilt of shame, to court the faceless. There’s a waterline, to scope the
limits, to prevent destruction. We’re thrown in, swimming windward, spinning
through waves. We keep it silent—this yacht of turmoil, slightly balanced by
love. There’s a dolphin, leaping through currents, to generate courage; thus we
surface, to fight the ebb, filled with goosebumps. We soon discern—the helm of
self, a fathom deep. Its highs for lows, a cycle for a fender, to soften the
impact; where souls are hitched,
—fallin’
for rising, feeling through guts. There’s chi for thought, to wrap a heart, to
push it further; in which a keel, a furious flame, to unravel a knot; whereby a
sequence—of daily events, to witness the cycle; whereat are lights, to gather
the stars, to feel this root. It was leeward strides, to challenge faith, to
witness transformation; in which for growth, through imperfect styles, to
strike for oil; where now a bundle—of sacred tactics, to offset grief. We share
to learn, to study for methods, hoping for everlasting; but this is gray, the
width to feel—something indefinable; whereat are gems, the pain of painless,
for something familiar; thus to see it, the ecstasy of flux, to live it
exhausted; but rare for moments, to feel alive, at peak performance; for this
is sought, a melodious venture, to spin through cycles; so more to breath, the
kef of life, to filter passions; where laughter rings, to stream emotion, to
channel a rapture.
