To
feel life—its intricate makeup, this piercing of puzzles; to claim it as joy,
wrestling with contradiction, as feeling peaceful, and still, yearning for
deeper serenity. I touched illusions, this spacecraft of adventures, hereby,
lost in madness; to travel something sacred, and still, out of focus, a
fingerprint running. It couldn’t be us—as walking through hints, as nearly
exaggerating life; and more it is—this inner channel, where thoughts are tenuous—where
hearts are peaking! I yearn for essence, hereby, as saturated—as becoming
deficient—our public square! It mustn’t be us, wherewith, are roots, tugging at
mystery. I must be dreaming—to witness her eyes, as adapted to this life, as
wailing for warriors, this collage of soldiers, spiritually sacrificed! It
couldn’t be real, this human condition, as destined for paradox; whereat, are
patches, knitted in feelings, this wave of intensities; and it couldn’t be
real, this Job-like test, hereby, to feel inadequate; and it couldn’t be real,
as never imagined, to love at first glance. There’s a vision, longing for
fruition, as reaching through our souls. It outlines our passions, whereby, it
conditions our minds—as ever squirming through mazes. It mustn’t be us, this
inner refocusing, this tendency towards selfishness; to have for meaning, this
brave intention, saturated with frustrations. Contentment is a challenge—for it
must be rooted—as acquired in one’s youth; else, for struggles, this furious
chase, where more is not quite enough. I’ve witnessed mockery, as embracing a
new venture, as to bring thoughts to a halt. It mustn’t be us—as to perish to
find it, as perfecting personalities—where one sees gray, a bit affronted, by
this mutual affair—where first views offend!
