I
can’t imagine it, this inner fusion, this outward touching; to sprinkle this
math, as exponential, to sort through flames. To last so long, as existing a
body, or this grand infusion;—it couldn’t be real, as yearning for expression,
to find a home! Its mind to soul, as soul to spirit, this immortal reach;—as
designated swords, as sighted concentration, a flickering voltage; as seeming
manic, to last so long, or a touch divine; or maybe yogis, as stressed through
chi, or a group of Buddhists. I can’t imagine—pulled to reckon, as this inner
examination, this outward brain; to float a sign, wherewith, is silence, to
await dissipation; therewith, are angels, this christic art, as hearts beyond
measure. It couldn’t be real, this inner kingdom, as speaking through
centuries; but it couldn’t be real, to reach a soul, seated in solitary; for it
wasn’t me, I must confess, to strike this furnace. There must be three, or even
more, pounding at inner doors. I can’t explain it, as pulling back, for one to
see so clearly. I thought of years, coupled with tears, to resign to no-thoughts; this limited freedom, as
tugged within, clawing at a vacuum; but more this chi, this flaming spirit, as
soaring through galaxies. We can’t imagine, to finally grasp it, at once a
magnet for faith; as rituals unfold, as magic soon swarms, this mystic commune.
I thought a name, afraid to tell it, for it must be unreal; as a mere thought,
a particle within, this science filled with riddles. May it keep us whole, if
wholeness is grace, as not to harm our souls; for something follows, this grand
challenge, to hold us captive; but love is looming, this blossom of waves, as
caves are opened; to reappear, as one so close, a millennium afar.
