The
war is internal, a fury of thoughts, where one repeats itself. We practice no-thoughts, to hush thoughts, to hear
thoughts. One is for the good, to the affliction of soul, to wrestle a secret;
and there’s a slant, this holy belief, bundled in the recesses. Moods are
altered. Perception is challenged. The music agitates. We search a cave, this endless drug,
colored by warfare. It lives in contours, to induce piercing eyes, as to know
self is to know others; where desire conquers, to know this force, to exchange
secrets; as if in hiding, this faint disclosure, to grapple with expansion. The
garden bleeds, upon a feast of souls, to hear it in the background. It dwells
in trauma, those childhood scars, compounded by adulthood. How to outsoar
mirrors; this aloof image, the flowers of perception; as getting closer, to
suffer delusions, a phenomenon grounded in illusions. There’s a hole of
emotions; a system of reasons; as to confound intellect. The music continues;
the ink lives; for this is this life; to watch for scolding; a short reply; to
avoid frustration—where the surface distracts, from the deeper inquiry, as one
ill-equipped. We lose in pieces, as
to undergo change, to experience mystery; as to know in parts, this internal
chi, at war to unveil. We must engage, to find for peace, a moment of clarity;
as to define, and utter barely—the full dynamics. We often retreat, to preserve
this space, where moods change, to creep into crevices. We feel in unison, this
exotic thought, to pull at energies. The ember flickers, as chasing thoughts,
to pause as one conditioned.
