It
can’t be real—this cycle for ups and downs, engrossed in ‘motions; to feel the
heaviest smile, to search for order—and find for clouds. Is it us, scraping
concrete, gravel embedded knees? There’s a disconnection; one for sullen, with
one for consciousness; while joy is present, a shadowed force, hampered by
slight anguish. The soul is watching—filled with daffodils and mourning-tulips.
I saw a dahlia—as beautiful as rain, turning trauma into art. I mocked in
jest—ever that closer, to a penchant fondness. There’s pain to surface, where
the heart trickles—into stately puddles; where more the vocals, an internal
dialogue, to idealize a fervent pulling; in which are deaths, to breathe
through lives, to buttress a sculptress. The heart is warm, to trek the agony,
to feel for puppets; where mind is there, a part in a movie, as telic as hidden
meaning; to
feature
a self, a shatterproof soul, appalled by mannequins; and not to brag—to suffer
the same—and strengthen a voice. The motion is vivid, even a temblor, the
particles of sorrow; where minds drift, a continent of woes, to struggle
through the mire; to challenge days, and conquer nights, to move the cycle; but
what for heights, to channel for lows, to live this soulprint? I ask—the
purpose of rhetoric, and rarely for an answer; for the facts are known—to ski
this mountain, picking at a padlock; to feel for passions, to feel for flats,
to feel for elation. The soul is turning, to awaken a sentence, to tug an inner
kingdom; where a puppeteer lives, a grand piano, and a screaming violin; for
none to see, but all to feel—this consuming beauty; but it can’t be real—this
cycle for ups and downs, engrossed in ‘motions.
