Walking Thoughts

He found himself lost, as partially found, and meandering through angst: the high hills, the pleasurable trees, tugging his attention. It was honesty—the hidden fruits, to nibble symbolic apricots. He paddled a nightmare, semi-apprehensive, where nothing appealed to science. I asked his name, where a woman answered, to nod and vanish—but ever present. Such is design—the love of prose, to never cuddle an instinct; where this is melancholy, to seek out justice, confined to a brain. We’re looking for deeper, the midnight trails, bombarded by sunlight; to see the air bend, the winds whistle, the curves of an inclination; where children watch, an art unprepared, and a need to give solace. He told me thrice, to wonder of no worry, where if need be we perish; I hassle with this thought, floating through mind waves, that further the Morning Star.

For it to be science, it must be reason, and easily repeatable—to withstand falsification; and by what standards, the tender feelings, to sit enclosed breathing in-and-out. We find religious, drifting through portals, able to teach the methods. Is this for science, a repeated method, grounded in experience? He wonders of the chaos, chiming in a chimney, as casual as cold climaxes. We’re lost to filter, the repeated process, to overwhelm science. How for this measure, an inner experience, to face a kaleidoscope; and rare the measure, to warrant respect, else for integrity; where thoughts fail, a deductive process, and thereby the inductive; but more to privy, and somewhat cantankerous, If only to see as I see. I found for self lost, as partially found, meandering through angst: the high hills, the pleasurable trees, tugging my attention.