It’s
the chance of life—guided by circumstance, to face the evil. It’s the
lowliness—of this stature, while the storm arises. We escape in segments,
wrapped in tentacles, to inflame through moods; thus, we cherish love, the
craft of its touch, riding this merry-go-round.
He
was young—and couldn’t see—the features of his days. The light shun for one
oblivious, the rapture of his council. To call was to hear, for one unspoken,
pulled by happenstance; but more to life, the constant pulling, to grab his
attention.
We
live this way, to undervalue love, with indirect focus—to perish wildly. It
couldn’t be, the thing that it is, taken inventory: the ups and downs, the
seesaws of times, the internal laps; where it lives, this portrait of man, at
tug-a-war with self.
Why
for this tension—semi-barricaded, to re-caption a moment; where it plays—upon a
section of thoughts, near an Iceland furnace. Its paradox and pain, the passion
of reason, to capture one’s attention; else to dwindle, lost to the winds,
drifting in particles.
