I’m
back to decaf, fully distraught, to fathom mania; this feature, this entity,
this visitation; to come and go—at unawares, to flicker like a spark. The
hunger is there, as beige as khakis, this inner in-between; the culture of
grace, ever to overwhelm, as subtle as psychotic features; to embody a soul, a
rare feat, a portrait in hindsight. We filter this way, to be for humans, the
scope of hypomania. I itch to see it, where life is ordered, a falcon in a
basement; to see for life—the rills of death, a koan to a novice; where love is
action, to feel resurrection, buried in a Bible. Oh to think it, to garner that
whiff, to thirst the outer regions. I laugh to flee—the girth of pain, even a
sincere look; for never to know, to wait in silence, where dots connect. It’s
ever this way—the partial claims, to resist resistance. Oh to fly, forever too
close, scourged for seeking; and ever to tarry, forever too far, held in
contempt. It’s the rawest cycle, inching in segments, that richer the
sacrifice. I cry to feel it—that inner sequence, to follow inclination; and
ever that churn, to scorch the heart, a sudden volt; where days are visions,
and nights are confirmation, to see the sphinx. We trek a desert, a cactus for
water, to soar swiftly. It’s ever that moment, to needle the hunger, that
closer afar; where paradox lives, to fathom betweens, to live ambiguity; but
ever the evidence, a subjective objective, grounded in experience; where one is
privy—to a dome of lightning, to traipse the nightfall. We live it to love it,
the charm of shyness, to feel for comforts. Oh the majesty, to spark a wick,
where a candle shimmers; to see it and dance—through lights and fixtures, that
closer afar.
