Oh
the death, as life immortal, a portal of souls; as if dead, flaming in glory,
to scream out, ha! The essence are
two—a spawn of tacks, to level the seashores. Oh to touch it, as to sit in
stillness, as one breath one pulse. How for such power—this miracle mind,
chanting with Buddha; alive come gravel, sorting through smaze, inhaling
pavements; to sit and chuckle, ever at war, the core grinded softly? It’s
unbreakable, to rest at intervals, as one through worlds. We dig for cultics,
to chime as wizards, to empower this mental wand; as for use, by soul and
torch, a psych, a teacher, a goddess; and all as one, as strengths evolve, the
chosen as servants. Oh for Siena, the days of now, a well of screaming spells;
to dine with persons, alone a room, to feel our neighbor’s kef—as one for
mercy, to purchase without currency, the anguish of trials. I cried his soul to
reach his soul, to chisel his message; and the goddess heard, to pray my soul,
a secret I must keep. Oh to read it, the in-betweens, to glean from the crops
of humans; but it couldn’t be—as one my idol, pushing me further; and yet it
is—this nightingale of love, and asking for nothing. We cross for lives, a
yacht in a pit, climbing forward—as froward the pain, this contrary life, as
one to reckon sorrow. I brought us joy, to relish for moments, to return
digging deeper. Oh the heights, for stranded at lows, crying and flying and
standing still! Was it us, or better the streams, that broke
the chains—as one alive, to rekindle chains, a process immortal? I flew to feel
it, to utter the truth, to wonder of the following: What are we most familiar with?
