The
days are splayed, the words of a saxophone, to intensify feelings; to channel
so grayly, to see for unicorns, this inward drilling.
There’s
hailstone, the flutes of this awaking, a monk through the vineyards; to live—this
inner life, hacking at wildflowers.
We
watch the ants, far from sluggards, to wonder of resilience; that inner calm,
to follow a trail, to ignore a hapless footprint. They scurry—to return,
hell-torn for the queen.
There’re
empty ashtrays, and flowing ash, plus an inner thump. What for this life—the fusion
of Torah, the chaos of religion?
The
water is salty, to have for salt, to season our perceptions; where this is
wisdom, that sightless stream, founded in sequences.
Oh
the fervent, that shorn for God, a trombone to the psyche; to flourish through
tears, this ever awakening, to find a kernel of joy.
There’re
living saints, to paint in pastels, to live unadorned; and so unassuming, this
inward knowledge, to relish in harps.
Hi Love.
We’ve
painted a portrait; that closer to realities, for shorn intentions.
We’re
influenced, to pardon the past, upon logical reasoning; but
what
for rain, that inward complication, to venture the heartsores. If
but
to fly, that closer to realities, fishing for solutions. I ask, for this
want
to give, both time and vision; for it couldn’t be, the worst of
thoughts,
clanging through dungeons. It’s more but a fragment, of
this
internal truth, where love is fusion; but there lives a fear, where
hurt
trumps progress, and the pillars soon shatter; but we love for
strength,
to fortify mansions, to imbue the countenance; where
absence
is rain, to mull over why, that
closer to realities. Time is
filtering,
to soon repent, to ask for a pardon; where love dwells, to
give
this thing, that rests in mire; wherefore, we cleanse the vessel,
to
purify life, that much closer to realities; for I know this heart, as
rich
as Wind, to sprinkle the soul; and this for closer: It should have
never been, the days of this anguish; but more to see,
the realms of
humanity,
featured to oneself; where mirrors wink, and one would
wince,
to feel the inner person flinch; but more to love, to
maneuver
through marsh, to extract sudden truths.
