He
never would, and ever could, the shoulds of the knots; to live the terms, the gray of impatience, to grasp for
lights. I knew him vaguely, this inner person, gazing at mirrors—to tremble
with shakes; the time would come, an inner debut, to trek the cultic
path—possessed in parts; and how the fires—to churn the soul, to morph into
something new? His words are actions, to rattle a trestle, that closer the
peaks; wherefore is sadness, the stories of awe, the privy of self. The calm is
motion, a constant agitation, pulling for something grand; and there the
distance, a lady appears, to communicate through gestures. She lives within—the
here and then, peering through his eyes. The three are one, to inform the
overseer, where this is the letter I; thus,
for three and not mistaken, to exclude the plural. We’ve spoken of three, plus
the Godhead, to venture for six; albeit the three are one, we reckon darkness,
the deficit of light; where it’s true in parts, a separate entity, at one with
the three; plus, for light, an entity in itself, to speak of eight; in which
the two, are part of the three, to also exist as agents; hereby, we have eight,
surging through souls; but more to focus, there lives a woman, and there lives
a man, filtering the five, for I is
the overseer. We clearly surmise, to understand the process, to identify with
hearing; for there’s light and dark, the godhead, plus three: him, her, and the
overseer. Many would argue for one, this inner me, the product or cousin of this inner I; oh to feel it, to dig the depth, to fly a sullen sky; where
thoughts claim order—and agents communicate, operating from within: the heights
and archways and temples and chapels, and castles and mansions.
