Some Sort of Realism Shadowed in Mystery

It’s near for crazy, ever to perish, touched with laughter; something maniacal—this innocent heartbeat, featured in her cheekbones. Is it us; a bit for stressed, the pain of joy, retreating into self? I ask and mourn—the subtle graves, hoping for the vocal waves; where hurt is abated, to skate through regions, surfing through blue blood. We stream to cherish, an inner vest, the

blueprints of eternity; and oh for soul rites, to camp the caves, sculpting upon stonewalls; where something is lethal, an inner trumpet, a mental armoire. I found a riddle, to know its face, the color of our lives; where stress is home, to lose it with discomfort, a bear to wean her cubs; and there afar, a stagnant river, chuckling with laughter. This for nature, to feel it so long, this

abstract level of concretes; to know surreal, to live and feel—the feeling of empty space; and still return, filled with glee, the anguish of its disappearance; to see and fly, as heavy as grief, to muster more than a smile. It’s a different degree, that inner thriving, to make sense of madness. We cry and mourn, to mold a few words, as merry as religious fervor; and what for us, as distant

as face value, as close as inward seasons; the scope of treasures, the tender mercy, the traces of anguish; where this is wealth, the shift and yearn, a fortress of reasoned thoughts; to glean with purpose, that open terrain, pressing towards mysticism. We love for mystery, to sin the esoteric—the misuse of powers; but truth is painted, on the walls of souls, to color consciousness; the welts and scars, the hurt and hell, the bliss and cycles. It’s true for hearts; the stop and go, the long goodbyes, to realize a particular need.